Mistaken Identity

Reluctantly he got up and put on his coat before going outside in the rain. A few minutes later he returned with a load of firewood, his clothes soaking wet. After tending the fire he went into the bedroom and changed, leaving his wet clothes on a chair.

The radio program ended several hours later, at nine o’clock, and the family was preparing for bed when there was a loud insistent knocking at the front door. It was Ben Giles, Sheriff of Madison County.

By the look on the sheriff’s face the couple knew it was not a social visit. “Bill, where have you been tonight?”

With no reason to be alarmed, Bill replied that he had been home all night since getting off from work at five o’clock. He had not left the house all night. The same question was asked of Claudia and she confirmed what Bill said.

While they were talking a deputy went into the bedroom, returning a few minutes later with a wet shirt and pair of pants. “I thought you said you had not left the house all night,” he asked.
Bill explained about going outside in the rain to get firewood but the deputy seemed not to hear. Suddenly feeling alarmed at the strange questioning, Bill began demanding to know what it was all about.

Sheriff Giles looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to decide something, before finally replying. “Son, you’re under arrest for armed robbery. Ol’ Man Tipton was robbed about an hour ago and we have two witnesses who identified you.”

Claudia Perkins stood on the front porch with her daughters and watched in shock as her husband was led off in handcuffs. She later said she felt as if she was living in some kind of a horrible nightmare. She knew beyond a shadow of doubt that her husband was innocent; she had been with him all evening. Her children had also told the deputy that their father had been home all night but no one seemed to listen, or care.

At first light the next morning Claudia walked to a neighbor’s home and begged him to take her to town to try to find out what was happening. The news was even more disheartening than the night before. Mr. Tipton, a rent collector for the Mills, had been robbed as he was making his rounds. A person who lived across the street from where the robbery occurred, and who worked at the Mill, had given a statement that he saw Bill running away from the scene with a pistol in his hand. Another person who also worked at the Mill said he was walking down the street and saw Bill waiting in the shadows at exactly the place where the robbery occurred a few minutes later.

Claudia spent the rest of the day going from one office to another trying to find someone who would listen to her story.

Repeatedly she was told that the evidence was overwhelming. At one point she was even warned that she could be prosecuted for lying to authorities and insisting she had been with her husband all evening.

The neighbor who had given her a ride had stayed with her all day as she beseeched authorities to listen to her. On the way home that afternoon he was strangely silent. Finally after clearing his throat several times he blurted out what he had been thinking all day.

“Mrs. Perkins, I know what you are trying to do. I might do the same thing if it was my kin, but you need to stop this before you get in trouble. We all know that he did it and you are just going to have to learn to live with it.”

Almost as an afterthought he added, “That boy has bad blood running all through him. It’s a wonder he ain’t been in prison before.”
Claudia bit her tongue to keep from saying what was on her mind. When they pulled up in front of her home she got out without saying a word, not even bothering to close the car door.

It was true, she thought, that Bill had been in trouble before but never for anything serious. He had a hair-trigger temper and would fight anyone he thought was insulting him. Several months earlier he had been fired from the Mill when he got into a fight with one of the foremen. 

She knew the fights and the drinking were Bill’s fault and had loudly told him so on more than one occasion.

But…..this was different. She knew there was no question that her husband was innocent of the robbery. Bill would have had to drive to town, rob Mr. Tipton and then drive back home in the three or four minutes he was out of her sight getting firewood. It was impossible. There was no way.

News travels fast in a small community. The next day brought a steady parade of family and friends stopping by to offer their condolences, and most likely hoping to pick up some juicy gossip. Claudia told her story over and over again, as did her two daughters, but no one really listened. One of her cousins, a large overweight woman known for her holier-than-thou attitude, began harping at her about leaving Bill. Another person, a neighbor whom Claudia had tried to sell Bill’s car to in order to hire a lawyer, told everyone who would listen that he had always predicted that Bill would end up in prison.

Claudia’s oldest daughter, Betty, tried to tell everyone that she was with her father that night but no one was interested. Almost sixty years later she could still vividly recall that day. “When no one would listen to me I started crying and screaming that my father was innocent. I told them that they didn’t know what they were talking about.”

“I still remember one woman who kept watching me like I had a contagious disease. She leaned over to another woman and said,
“It ain’t right what they are making these children do.”

Unable to post bail, Bill Perkins remained in jail until his trial. That only served to intensify the gossip.

Human nature can be cruel. While people will swear undying friendship and loyalty, few can resist the temptation of listening to, or repeating, gossip. As Bill Perkins sat in jail, his whole life became fodder for the rumor mills. Stories were told about his grandfather who had been locked up one time for bootlegging, and of a cousin who had been divorced two times.

People began to tell stories about Claudia; about how she must be a loose woman to live with a man like her husband. Parents warned their children about playing with her daughters, saying they came from bad blood.

The trial itself only lasted a few hours. A witness took the stand and testified he saw Bill Perkins running away from the scene with a gun in his hand. He described the gun as being a nickel-plated revolver. Bill’s lawyer never asked the witness how he could identify Bill, or a gun, from almost a hundred feet away at night during a drenching thunderstorm.

“We moved to town and Mama got a job working at the Mill. Every spare minute was spent working on her papers and talking to people at the Courthouse. One judge she talked to told her to not worry, that “three years would go by in a hurry.”

“We didn’t have any money but Mama kept talking to lawyers anyway, trying to get them to take the case. One lawyer actually read all the records and told Mama there would be no trouble getting it overturned …. but he needed two thousand dollars upfront. He said justice might be blind, but it wasn’t cheap.

Bill Perkins spent almost two and a half years in the penitentiary before being released. The homecoming was bittersweet. The family was together but would have to start all over again. His car had been sold to pay the lawyers. Most of their furniture had been repossessed. Adding insult to injury, the Mill informed Claudia that if Bill stayed with her she would have to move out of the Mill home she was renting. “We don’t want people like him living here,” they said.

“Daddy tried hard,” remembered Betty. “He knocked on about every door in Huntsville trying to get a job but when they found out who he was they wouldn’t hire him. His cousin finally loaned him the money to buy an old truck and he spent weeks working on it trying to get it to run. Later on he started hauling timber from sawmills out in the country. It didn’t pay hardly nothing but Daddy made up for it by working seven days a week, morning to night.”

Suddenly, about six months after Bill got out of prison, it seemed as if a miracle was about to happen. A Huntsville policeman, who was married to Claudia’s cousin, stopped by the house one day with astonishing news. A man had been arrested for armed robbery and while being questioned had confessed to the crime Bill was convicted of. For the first time in three years there was something to really celebrate.

It was pouring rain with the temperature hovering around the freezing mark. Reluctantly, Bill decided to hitch a ride into town to get a tow truck. Car after car slowly passed, with some of them almost coming to a full stop before recognizing him and speeding away. Finally, after standing in the cold rain for almost an hour, he got a lift from a complete stranger.

“I remember Daddy coming home that day,” said Betty. “He stood in front of the fireplace for the better part of an hour without ever saying a word. Finally he looked at me and told me to go get Mama and my sister. When we were all gathered in the front room Daddy announced we were moving to Chicago. He would go first, get a job and find a place for us to live. Then he would send us the money for bus tickets.”

“I ain’t living no place where they treat a man worse than a mongrel dog!”
“The next day Daddy left,” continued Betty. “That was the last time we ever saw him. Two days later a deputy knocked on the door and told us that Daddy had died in a car wreck near Evan- ston, Indiana.”

“Mama didn’t have the money to have Daddy’s body shipped home so they buried him in a pauper’s grave.”

As news of Bill’s death spread people began stopping by Claudia’s house to offer their condolences. In a sick sort of way, many of the condolences were coupled with “…..It’s probably the best thing. Now he is out of your life for good!”

“Mama sat there in a chair not saying anything, just listening to people talk about her husband. Finally Mama got up and went into the bedroom. When she came back she was holding my father’s old shotgun.”

In a voice barely above a whisper Claudia ordered everyone out of her house.
“It was almost funny to watch that bunch of hypocrites fighting one another to get out the front door,” remembered Betty. “After that people pretty much left us alone but it didn’t help Mama. She had been through so much that she was just drained inside. Four years later, on my 21st birthday. Mama died.”

“That same summer I visited my father’s grave in Indiana. I had never been there before but the grave was easy to find. Mama had ordered a tombstone for it.”

During the almost half century that I have been in the restaurant business I have seen literally hundreds of thousands of people come and go. I have watched the high and the mighty, the rich and the famous, share tables with people who could barely afford to pay for their meals. I have watched as politicians poured coffee for house painters and I have watched as many of my customers grew up, got married and brought their children and grandchildren back to visit with me.

Some of them went on to become famous and wealthy while others chose a different path and ended up in jail or in disgrace. The one thing all these people had in common though, was their heritage and the love of the city they called home.

Huntsville has a certain mystique about it that is hard to describe, even if you have lived here all your life. Most cities are characterized by their buildings and attractions, but Huntsville is different. While we have our share of historic antebellum homes and tourist attractions, it’s the people and their stories that make Huntsville the unique place it is.

When I first entered the restaurant business there was no such thing as television. People would come in and sit around for hours drinking coffee and catching up on the news. Once the current events were exhausted, people would tell tales about the old days, of people they had met and of things that had happened.

These stories were the one thing that everyone shared. We all had tales about forefathers who fought in the Civil War, of bootleggers, moonshiners, crooked politicians and of people who picked cotton and went on to become millionaires, I remember once when Huntsville elected a sheriff as a joke. Few people from out-of-town ever believed the story though, because in reality it was almost unbelievable. That’s probably when the tradition of the “Liar’s Table” began in my restaurant.

After World War II, Huntsville began to change. Thousands of people began moving here and cotton fields became subdivisions. For many of these people, it was the first time they had ever lived in the South.

I remember when the German scientists first moved here. Many of them could barely speak English but within a few years it was common to hear them say “y’all.”

On one of my road trips to Louisiana I encountered a heartwarming incident I must tell you about. Having boarded dogs, cats, turtles, lizards, squirrels, birds, guinea pigs and spiders, I’ve noticed that animals often are smarter than we give them credit for. The jury is still out on cats.

Hurricane Katrina in 2005 had stranded a puppy of Great Pyr- enees origin at my friend’s home near Baton Rouge. The puppy was traumatized and nearly starved from going through the hurricane. She was sweet and gentle. With no owner located, my friend decided to raise her. The concern was with the animal’s eventual size. My friend’s brother agreed to help with food, medicine, whatever was needed; the dog had found a forever home. She had woven herself into everyone’s heart.

The puppy was a beautiful furry white ball, and it was decided she should be named “Sugarfoot.” Now for the event that gave evidence of how special this dog was. It was 2011, I had traveled down to Louisiana to take part in Mardi Gras.

Each time I visited Sugarfoot, she would get her leash for me to take her for a walk, or was she taking me for a walk? My friend lived in a rural area. One could walk a good distance on a firm surface without concern for traffic.

This time I was walking Sugarfoot, we were about 1/2 mile from the house. She abruptly stops. Her ears went back, showing great concern for an open ditch area. She pulled her leash strongly and at one point tried to drag me into the ditch. Weighing over seventy-five pounds there was little a person could do if she did not want to obey commands. I approached the ditch cautiously and proceeded to investigate with her to ascertain what she found so intriguing. A light “meow” could be heard.

Sugarfoot became excited, her tail was straight out and about to wag off. She reached her snout into the end of a drainage pipe while standing in two inches of water. She pulled out a small kitten by the scruff of its neck and set it down in front of me. Sugarfoot began to lick the small creature from head to tail. The kitten looked like a drowned rat. Attempt by me to pull her away was futile. The small creature clung to Sugarfoot’s long hair on her hip and would not let go. Sugarfoot would not nudge without the kitten. She proudly walked home with the kitten clinging to her long hip hair. The kitten could be heard purring while clutching onto Sugarfoot. My friend provided food and water for the kitten. The kitten however preferred to drink from Sugarfoot’s water dish. 

Strange things often happen at the least expected time! At a board meeting of the Huntsville Pilgrimage Association, a middle-aged lady who was just joining us asked me if I lived at 408 Holmes Avenue. Startled and excited, I said yes and I didn’t know it then but Tiny Cole’s granddaughter had just introduced herself. Thus, I began to learn more about my beautiful old house and the beautiful people that had lived there. I call my house “Miss Tiny” in appreciation of Mrs. Tiny Cole who made 408 Holmes, her home for over 60 years. This is our story.

In 1805 the land where 408 Holmes Avenue is located was purchased at the land auction by Leroy Pope. He planted or cultivated a pecan orchard from his house on Echols to Walker Avenue. Many of the pecan trees are still around and can be viewed from the air in rows. Pope sold the land to Thomas and William Brandon in 1818 who were establishing themselves as developers in the area. The land sold about every 20 years to different people until 1873 when Robert Searcy sold the property to Milton Humes.

The 1880 Sanbourn maps show a house on the property as well as the house extending on the property of 410 Holmes. The home did not look as a Victorian style in the drawings on the maps. When Milton Humes bought the property in 1873, he was moving here from the beautiful little town of Abington, Virginia to marry Ellelee Chapman, daughter of the former Alabama Governor Reuben Chapman.

Humes, an attorney, had met Ellelee when he was a Confederate soldier stationed in Huntsville. When he returned, Milton Humes built a huge mansion off of Meridian Street calling it Abingdon Place.

The Coles had been living on Clinton Avenue and when their young three-year-old son died of diphtheria in 1910, they wanted to move. At that time, Huntsville was a busy thriving place with a street car traveling down the middle of Holmes Street. (It became Avenue in the 50s).

The Coles had a daughter Belle in 1917 and life seemed to be picking up again. Belle was the center of their life. Then, Cole’s health started to weaken and in September of 1925, Wiley Cole died at 52 years of age. Now the beautiful Tiny had to make plans for her and her young daughter.

In the coming year Tiny married David Young, another middle management sales manager for Dunnavants. They lived in the house until 1938 when Mr. Young died. At that point, the world was being thrust into war so Tiny made some major decisions to help her economic situation. She worked part-time in sales in Dunnavants department store and she renovated her house so that she could take in boarders.

In 1910 or so, an apartment had been created on the west side of the house. She could accommodate a boarder in that structure but now she reconfigured so that she could accommodate other boarders as she redivided up the inside of the house, decreasing her living space.

In 1967 at the age of eighty-three, Tiny died after living in the house through World War I, the Women’s Suffrage movement, the Roaring 20s, the Great Depression, World War II, the Korean Conflict, the Cuban Missile Crisis, a lot of the Civil Rights movement, part of the Vietnam war and two husbands. Her life had been full! The neighborhood didn’t look the same. Many of the houses were boarding houses and the houses needed repair. The house stayed in the family until the family sold it in 1977 in bad need of repair.

A young attorney named Clem Cartron bought the house and made lots of renovations and repairs and practiced law from this location. He kept the house for about 13 years and then he sold it to a family that wanted to make it into a Bed and Breakfast. The Historic Commission had just been recently created and this was considered outside of the guidelines so it never opened as a bed and breakfast. The house was put back on the market but did not sell for a number of years. Around 1996, local realtor David Martin bought both houses, 408 and 410 and made major renovations.

Well, another year has come and gone. I guess there is no need to make a New Year’s resolution this year since I never seem very good at keeping them. I plan to eat right, exercise and hopefully stay out of the hospital. That might be good advice for all of us.

COVID maybe even more of a problem in January from all the gatherings over Christmas and New Year holidays. With more hospitals being flooded with COVID (approximately 325 people are still dying each day in the U.S. from COVID as of the end of December), flu and RSV. I urge everyone to get their shots. If you get either of the illnesses, your case might not be as severe, and it could keep you home rather than in the hospital. It is still recommended to wash hands frequently and wear a mask in large crowds.

I checked with our pet centers; they need families to foster cats or dogs even if they can’t take on an animal full-time. Who knows, you might change your mind when those sad eyes look into yours, saying, “Please let me stay. I like it here.” I know you’ve heard of the studies that say an older person with a pet lives longer, right? There are several reasons, I think. First, just the stroking of fur on a cat or dog can be relaxing and lower your blood pressure.

Another chapter in the long history of Huntsville is soon going to be ended. The announcement in November of 2022 that The Huntsville Times will no longer be published in the printed form was a shock to me and many others, I’m sure. The change will take place in early 2023.

My entire career was spent at The Times. I have so many memories of that place and the many people I worked with there as we went about publishing the paper each day. Most of the memories remind me of happy times but there were a few memories that were not so pleasant. I think of some of my former workmates who are no longer with us and can’t help but feel sad.

When I began with a paper route at the ripe old age of eight I thought there would always be a printed newspaper in Huntsville. When I reached fifteen a job in the Circulation Department came open and I inquired about it. I was hired and began a string of 44 1/2 years of paychecks every Friday. That amounted to more than 2300 paydays for me. Add to that a pension check every month for 25 years since I retired and you can see how The Times took care of all its employees.

After two years in the Circulation Department a job in the Composing Room came open. I applied for that job and was accepted. The Composing Room was where the pages of the paper were put together and made ready to print. There I learned to run a Linotype machine and soon found I had a knack for that. The Linotype machine got its name from the way the individual letters were assembled to form a line of words for the columns of the paper.

After several years the owner decided to change to a computer system to ready the pages for printing.

Once the move was completed everyone was happy at the new location with many improvements including a new press and all new office equipment. It took a few weeks for everyone to get familiar with all the new things but we made it work.

At the old location all the carriers would assemble on the sidewalks or in the hallways of the building to wait their turn to get their papers. The papers were counted out by hand to the carriers. The two paper counters each had a list of routes and the number of papers each carrier was to receive. Things were much different at the new building. Since the building was on the busy Parkway it was decided to have several branch offices throughout the city where the carriers could pick up their papers. The carriers then could receive their papers in their individual neighborhoods which helped them get their routes done much quicker and much safer.

Once a major flood at the new Times building caused water to back up two or three feet in the basement. The black ink was stored in a large tank there and when the water filled the basement the tank and the pipes that carried the ink to the press were ripped out.

Fortunately, there were several 5-gallon cans of blue ink available so the paper was printed in blue ink that day.

The Times then made arrangements for the paper to be printed at area newspapers until the black ink tank and the pipes were replaced. Once again The Times did not miss an Edition.

The Huntsville Times as we have known it for so many years will be no more. It will surely be missed by many who enjoyed taking their newspaper and a cup of coffee and sitting in their favorite chair while they caught up on the news of the world. Maybe we can all make the adjustment without too much trouble. Only time will tell.

When I was growing up, most homes did not have refrigerators. Most homes depend- ed on “ice boxes”. Our home ice box had two doors. The top door is where the block of ice was stored, while the bottom was used to store milk, eggs, etc.
My dad, Barnie Lee Daniel, also known as Po Boy (I don’t know why he was called by that name) worked for Mason Brown Ice and Coal Company. The company was formed on April 18, 1927 and dissolved on September 30, 1952. The business was located on Meridian Street. I believe it was next door to Ray’s Auto, a Ford Dealership.

The company sold blocks of ice and also sold coal. You could pick up your ice at the ice plant, have it delivered, or buy it from a horse drawn wagon that would patrol the East Huntsville neighborhoods. Kids would chase the wagon to get a chip of ice when the delivery man would stop to make a sale.
The ice was usually sold in 25 or 50 pound blocks. The canisters used to form the ice would produce score lines to show the various block sizes. An “Ice Pick” was used to chip the ice along the score line to give you the desired weight.

Wanted – I am a wealthy young farmer and desire a housekeeper or companion. Fact is, I would like to come South and prefer a young lady of the South to share my life. Please communicate with G. Y. Watts, RFD No. 3, Eldorado, Kansas
Lost – Gentleman’s small pearl handle knife; two blades. Return to the Daily Times for a reward.

Successful Skin Grafting in Dallas Village, Dr. Caldwell has performed a successful skin grafting operation on a little five-year-old girl, he operated on the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. W. C. Wright in Dallas Village. The child had been seriously burned and had just reached that stage permitting skin grafting and the skill of the splendid physician was remarkable. A very moving note was that quite a number of able-bodied men bared their arms and permitted their skin to be grafted in order to save the life of the little girl. Her case was a very bad one but with the successful operation by Dr. Caldwell it is believed she will come out all right.

Deputy Sheriff N. L. Pierce today arrested 2 men – Celie Conley was charged with burglary and grand larceny and Will Wise on a peace warrant and using obscene language and both were placed in jail.

John Richard of Berkshire Hathaway was our first caller to correctly identify the Photo of the Month from last month to be that of Bill Miller, who built most of the bridges in this area with his company Miller and Miller. Bill was a sweet, kind man who was super loyal to his friends, and is missed every day. Congratulations to John for recognizing him.

And our hidden item for December was a tiny candle. Our winner for that was Jeannie Worthey who lives downtown and loves looking for our hidden items every month. It was on page 34, to the right of the tiny lady in the picture (she’s far right). See it now? Congratulations to Jeannie.

We lost a very dear lady recently. Martha Lee Lanier Seay, 73, of Huntsville passed away on Nov. 5, 2022. Martha was born and grew up in Owens Cross Roads and was raised by Lois Beatrice Kent and Grady Dennis. She worked 20 years in the banking field and fifteen years for the federal government, retiring in 2000. She loved her church and did numerous things such as WMU and Hospitality.

She enjoyed playing cards with friends and family. She also loved playing the piano, but later in life arthritis in her fingers prevented her from playing. She also of course loved shopping. She loved to go to the Smoky Mountains and other places and she especially loved taking care of her grandchildren. Martha is survived by her husband of 39 years Stanley Donald Seay, her sister Gurtha Pemberton, her brother Lee “Bubba” Lanier, her daughter Michelle Lee Keel (David), her son John Tabor Ikard, Jr. (Wanda), her son Mike Wayne Seay (Pam), her daughter Melanie Lynn Quillen, 5 granddaughters, 2 grandsons, 3 great grandsons and one great granddaughter. We send condolences to the family who will never forget this lady.

Phyllis Lawrence called to tell us that she and her husband Billy will be leaving Murfreesboro to be close to their son. they are moving to a tiny town in South Carolina that has a couple of stores and peach orchards. It sounds like heaven to me! Billy attended Butler High School here years ago and he and his brother played football for Butler. They still have friends here in Huntsville and are amazed about the changes we are seeing. Safe travels Phyllis and let us hear from you. We all know that cases of the flu, Covid and RSV are on the increase and we must be prepared. Have your thermometer, aspirin/medications, heating pad, everything your doctor tells you that you need in one place.

She would go on to become an international film and stage star, and was quite a character. She was beautiful as well as smart and got her start right here.

This month I have hidden a tiny antique heart pendant. Find it and call first, you’re the winner of a $50 subscription to Old Huntsville! I expect no calls, it’ll be my best hiding job ever.
New residents are coming by the hundreds every day to live in this area and there is really alot going on in the way of activities for the whole family. Looking online is probably the best to find a complete listing for each venue but here are a few I found with phone numbers.

Downtown Events: Craft Coffee Trail
https://www.downtownhuntsville.org/craft- coffee trail Secret Art Trail https:// www.downtownhuntsville.org/secretarttrail
Pick up a map from the Downtown Huntsville Visitor Information Center, grab a drink to go (served in a purple cup) and take a stroll through the downtown Arts & Entertainment District. Peek around corners, peer down alleyways, or simply look up!

The Visitors and Convention Bureau can get you all types of event information: https://www.huntsville.org/visitor-info/visitor-centers/ 500 Church Street NW, #1 Huntsville, AL 35801 (256) 551-2370 Lowe Mill – Open Wed-Sat 11-7 (256) 533-0399 Lowe Mill ARTS & Entertainment is the largest privately owned arts facility in the south. With a focus on visual arts, this historic factory building has been redeveloped into more than 150 working studios for over 200 artists, makers and independent businesses, 7 art galleries, a multi-use theatre, 4 performance venues, restaurants, a foundry, a chocolate shop, and a community garden. Our open door policy allows the public to visit artists and makers during the different stages of their creative process. 

Her name was Mary Riddick and she was one of the area’s most beloved educators during the years she taught at the Hurricane Creek and Riverton schools.

She started teaching as a substitute teacher shortly after the second war, never having attended college. Almost a quarter of a century later, when the education powers-to-be mandated that a college degree was a necessity, the furor in the community was such that she was given special dispensation to continue teaching. Her students were special people to her. No child would ever enter her classroom with a dirty face, or perhaps with a tear in his or her eye, without Mrs. Riddick immediately taking notice and providing the comfort that a small child needed so bad. People in the community later said that she could have bought a new house with the money she spent over the years buying food and shoes for the children. She taught three generations, and they were all her children. She never asked anything in return.

Outside the classroom she set an example in compassion and caring. She was always ready to help the community’s ailing, the poor, or just anyone that needed advice or a shoulder to cry on. For newcomers to the area, she would invariably bake a loaf of her mouth watering homemade bread.

“You could tell when Mrs. Riddick was coming up the path by the smell of that delicious bread,” recalls Margaret Frazier Tucker, who along with her husband J.B., are natives of the valley.

Time has a way of standing still, but only in our minds. This was my thought the other afternoon as some of us drove up along Hurricane Creek, listening as we went, to Thomas Frazier relate tales of his young years, many of which were spent in that scenic community.

Before the day was over we had visited with several oldtimers, and a few new residents, of the area. While several prominent people have their roots, or graves, in this beautiful valley, few, if any, reside there today. Yet, there are still some characters living in this refuge of days gone by, and the memories of the community’s mile markers are as vivid as the day they were made.

Mrs. Riddick’s son, Frank Jr., followed his mother’s inclination and became a public servant; Probate Judge of the county, to be exact. Buck Watson became a noted Huntsville lawyer. Alvin Blackwell attained several high chairmanships, including the county Democratic Party helmsman for many years. Herbert Ray went on to head one of the state’s leading Ford dealers.

During the heyday of moonshine, some mighty fine brew was produced in the area, but the Tuckers don’t remember anything about it, they being from proper Christian homes and all. “Some of the men- folks would go up to Jones Hollow in Lick Skillet to get liquor. They never caused no trouble, they’d just get together down on the creek and play cards and tell lies,” said Tucker, who was born in 1922.

If Hurricane Creek ever had such a thing as a “town hall,” it was Bobby Bragg’s Grocery Store. Someone sitting on the old wooden bench in front of the store, maybe whittling on a piece of wood, would sooner or later hear of everything that happened in the community. The store first opened in 1903 as the J.H. St. Clair Grocery. Mr. St. Clair also owned the local sawmill, cotton gin and coal mine. St. Clair was loved in the community and often spearheaded movements to help widows and orphans, providing food and coal to them. His grocery, if hard times necessitated it, would operate on the barter system when people had no money, or it would operate on the generous credit system when people had nothing.

There have been some anxious moments on Hurricane Creek, too. Like the time a shotgun was fired through the store’s front door. It was the result of a dispute between two feuding families, one member of which was inside the store buying groceries and the other outside waiting to waylay him. Patience wore thin for the ambusher, however, so he fired into the store, hitting nobody.

That was the most serious violence that ever occurred at the store, although Bob Blackwell, who was a deputy, once arrested a drunk who took the whole matter personally. The drunk returned that night and burned the Blackwell barn.
The store was also a voting place, which attracted more than usual interest. A common practice in those days was for unscrupulous candidates to pay for votes among the rougher elements. One voter, known for his close kinship with John Barleycorn, boasted that he sold his vote three times to various candidates. It was noted, however, that he got so plastered on “candidate whiskey” that he passed out before he got around to casting his vote for anybody.

My purpose here is to establish a Good Ole Days Club, and it’s up to you to determine whether you are a member, and at what level. If you answer Yes to 35 or more of these 50 items, consider yourself a Charter Member; up to 20 you’re an Associate Member; if fewer than 10, you’re outside the Club. Grab a pencil and for each Yes, circle the number as you read, then count them when finished. Here goes—

(1) You were raised on a farm. (2) You have plowed a field, without a tractor. (3) You have plowed a field with a tractor. (4) You chopped cotton in the July sun and picked it in the Septem- ber sun. (5) You have taken your Saturday bath in a No. 2 washtub or something smaller. (6) The biggest event of the year, aside from Christmas, was a day at the county fair. (7) You looked forward all week or all month to going to town on Saturday. (8) Somewhere on the premises of your home place was a structure called the outhouse.

(9) A room was added or a porch enclosed and the outhouse was moved inside. (10) Your family was poor—but you didn’t know it. (11) You could mail a letter for .30, or .50 if it was Air- mail. (12) You said Yes Sir, No Sir, Yes M’am, and No M’am to adults, especially your parents. (13) When the cousins spent the night, you all slept on pallets, built with quilts your Mama had made.

(14) When adults were talking, kids did not interrupt. (15) You bought bread for 1.20 a loaf and got change back from a 5 bill after filling your gas tank. (16) A typical Saturday night date was sitting in the living room with your Feller or Girl listening to the Grand Ole Opry. (17) You wouldn’t even think dirty words in the presence of your parents, much less say them. (18) You learned early that the noblest activity one could do was work—hard work.

(19) You also learned that next to work, nothing was more important than honesty, unless it was cleanliness. (20) You believed if you ever told a lie, especially to your parents, in the next instant you would drop dead, or worse. (21) It was your job to do one or more of these things, at one or both ends of the day: milk the cow(s), feed the pigs and chickens, churn butter, draw and bring in water from the well, bring in coal or stowood (as stove wood was called). (22) Walking was a means of transportation, not a fitness routine.

(23) When you finally got a telephone in the house, the line was shared with 4 or 8 of your (nosy) neighbors. (24) You had a pair of Sunday shoes that you didn’t wear any other time except to funerals or maybe to town. (25) Kids chased and caught lightning bugs and stored them in a Mason jar. (26) You ate wild plums picked straight from the bushes along dusty country roads. (27) You wrote your name on your cotton pick-sack with polk berries. (28) You built playhouses by sweeping the ground clean and outlining the rooms with rocks.(29) You respected your school teachers, and the principal even more. (30) You knew for certain if you ever got paddled at school you’d get a harder one when you got home. (31) There were two kinds of books in your home—the Bible and your school books. (32) The Sears Roebuck catalog was kept in the outhouse.

Most people think that cats do nothing, are lazy and just eat and sleep. It is not so!
Do you know what a cat’s real mission and purpose is?
All cats have the power, every day, to remove the negative energy accumulated in our body… as soon as we fall asleep, they absorb that energy. If there is more than one person in the family, and only one cat it can accumulate an excessive amount of negativity by absorbing energy from so many people. When they sleep, the cat’s body releases negativity it takes away from us. If we are too stressed, they may not have enough time to release all that negative energy, and so, as a result, it accumulates as fat, until they can release it. So, they get fat and you think it was the food you were feeding them… or because they don’t move enough… and the truth is, they don’t. It is nice to have more than one cat in the house, so that the weight is divided between them.

They also protect us during the night, so that no unwanted spirits enter our house or our room while we sleep… That’s why they like to sleep in our bed. If they think we’re fine, they won’t sleep with us. If there was something strange around us, they jump into our bed and protect us… If a person comes to our house, and the cats feel that that person is there to harm us or that he is bad, the cats surround us to “protect” us…
If you don’t have cats, and a stray cat comes into your house and adopts it as a home, it’s because you need a cat at that particular time… So the stray cat volunteered to help you.

– A Huntsville washer woman was arrested Thursday on a warrant from Judge Richardson for larceny. It Is charged that she received clothes to wash, and sold them instead of returning them.

– There Is a new manufacturing enterprise located in our city. It is a cigar factory, to be located on Franklin Street, below the post office. The proprietor, J. B. Dierke of Cincinnati, wisely decided on Huntsville after surveying several other cities. He informs us that he will use only the finest of goods, and his work will be handmade. So we will be seeing cigars made of only purest of tobacco, without the use of cabbage leaves, old rusty pieces of nails and leather.

– Stolen last Thursday night from Thomas Gore near Hunt- land, Tennessee a black horse mule. A reward of ten dollars will be paid for the return of the mule and ten dollars for the apprehension of the thief. The lucky man can address this newspaper or Thomas Gore in Huntland.

– Gas Cooking Stoves – Best of stoves for use by families, hotels and restaurants, supplied with directions for use, gas at reduced prices when used for cooking or bathrooms. See J. W. Murdock,. Northeast corner of Huntsville Hotel.

– In front of Charley Cummings’ grocery store, corner Holmes and Washington, we notice a very neat invention, known as the “Patent Well Windlass.” Mr. Cummings has the county right for its sale.

The Trimmers were considered inseparable, and a few hours after hearing of her passing, Mr. Trimmer joined his wife of 61 years. What a powerful bond. I began to ponder, and I wondered – is it a romantic coincidence, or could it be that something that is not visible or quantifiable has more influence than most acknowledge? Curiosity got the best of me as I began to research the matter. I found other incidences online, and it turns out that the effects of this union can be measured in one vital area of the body. The medical term that describes the condition is stress cardiomyopathy or Broken Heart Syndrome.

I believe the mental and spiritual can be manifested in the physical and that we are intertwined with those around us. We feel empathy for those we care for; we share their joys, passions, and pain. Often, even remotely, this feeling can be extended outwardly to people we have never met. They are to us unknown, but in whose struggle and triumph we can identify.
Others reciprocate for us, but oh, there are those most precious people. Those that would lay down their lives to protect ours.
It is not a sad thing or just an act of chivalry; to me, it’s proof of something greater than self, of a force that changes lives and relationships, whose effect benefits even those who are yet to be. Its power comes from unselfishness, the ability to love more than we love ourselves.
At least for me, that is where happiness is derived.

I believe that Life Force compels us to continue. Opening our eyes in the next is a progression as natural as our first glimpse of this world. Mr. Trimmer, at the moment leading up to his death, repeatedly uttered the phrases “Pull me up” and “Hold me tighter now.”

Have you ever seen a bottle tree? I’m talking about a tree with bottles tied to the limbs with string or stuck upside down on bare limbs of small trees stripped of branches and leaves. They now make black metal frames to hold bottles of your choice in your garden or yard.

The legend of these bottles appears to go back to the Congo during the ninth century. People believed the bottles would trap and ward off evil spirits. They preferred blue bottles. Today, people have them in gardens, even in various colors for decoration, and the legend persists that evil spirits will get trapped inside and the sunlight will destroy them.

At age nine in 1949, I emerged from the other side of woods behind my home and came upon a beautiful sight for a boy with his BB gun. The rear yard of another neighborhood had a sizeable decorative garden of rose bushes edged with azalea plants that had finished blooming for the season. In the middle was a metal structure sprouting several dozen, primarily blue bottles. What a target for a BB gun, about the only target that would shatter when hit.

The punishment wasn’t as bad as I feared. I lost the use of my BB gun until November.

Then my father made an indoor target BB backstop in our basement from a cardboard box stuffed with magazines. He helped me join the Junior NRA from a form in the back of a comic book. I shot at “NRA Official 15 Foot” targets, mailed them in for awards, and memorized the safe handling rules for all guns. I still have my Expert Marksman bar that hung from my Junior NRA medal, but I don’t know what happened to the rest.

The only bottles I shot after that were a few whisky bottles found on the sides of roads because I’d also discovered soda bottles were worth deposit money upon return. That kept me in coke and candy money.

Now let’s fast forward to 1961, just twelve years later, for a nine-year-old, a lifetime away. I was newly married. Judy and I lived in the student apartments. Early December arrived and I turned twenty-one. Alcohol purchase legal, not that being underage had slowed me down too much, and I got a case of beer to celebrate until the Christmas holidays. I had a collection of empty brown Budweiser bottles in short order and hated to just bust them up in the garbage.

I remembered the bottle trees. We had a small sapling in the backyard, barren of leaves and just right to put my bottles on the limbs. So I soaked the labels off, and that’s what I did with my case of empties. It brought back memories of the year when I’d used my BB gun on blue ones and later learned the mythical origin of bottle trees.

I called my new wife to see the talisman art project I’d created. “Ain’t this a beauty? It’ll ward off evil spirits.”

“No, it won’t,” she said. “It’ll show our neighbors that a drunk redneck and his wife live here. How about taking them all off?” She said it in such a way that I knew it was not a request. But, to avoid frigid weather, I agreed. Not having my trusty BB gun with me at school, I took the bottles off and threw them in our dented metal outdoor garbage can, busting each one on the other as they hit.

I love to travel. My greatest adventure was going to Australia in January 2012. I had been corresponding with my pen pal Martin for about 25 years. We heard about each other’s lives through “snail mail” and then email. There were a few odd phone calls, but they were quite expensive.

I boarded my plane in Nashville on a Monday and landed in Melbourne on a Wednesday. It was pretty awesome crossing the equator as well as the international date line.

During my stay with Martin, his lovely wife Liz and their children, I had a wonderful time. Martin took me around to various sites. Altogether too soon, it was time to come home. Those two weeks went by way too fast.

As I boarded the jet and found my seat, I heard a lady with the most unusual deep drawl. For the life of me, I could not place it!

She said to the young man who was greeting passengers…”Hey…hey! We gunna cross that ‘quator line’ thang?”

The young man smiled and affirmed that fact. She went on to say, “When we cross it, I wanna get a pi- chur of it. I done saw what it looks like in my daughter’s geography book”.

Not long ago I was asked what was the biggest lie that I had ever told. All of my life I have tried to be as honest as possible while speaking. I don’t even like to hear people exaggerate. However, one time I thought I had to tell a lie to get my point across.

My company moved from the Clinton Building to a new building in Research Park in 1987. Being in facilities, I was in charge of flying the US flag on our new flag pole. I researched the guidelines for the proper display of the American flag. If we flew the flag at night, it required a spotlight on it. The architect must not have known this because we did not have lights shining on the flag. That meant we had to take down the flag every night and put it back up each morning. After a couple of months of this, I installed spotlights.

Another guideline that is often broken is when to lower the flag to half-staff. The flag code states that the President will make a proclamation when an elected official dies or there has been a national tragedy or catastrophe. Often people lower their flag when a local celebrity or someone in their company dies. I noticed every few months the company located across the street from us would lower their flag to half-staff. Since the President had not made a proclamation, I called them and asked why the flag was at half-staff. The receptionist said an employee’s family member died and they always lower their flag when that happens. I quoted the US flag code and she replied it was their flag and they would fly it anyway they wanted to. I asked to speak to the facility manager and she said he was out of town.

A couple of months later, the flag once again was lowered to half-staff. This time, I called and asked to speak to the facility manager. To get his attention I stated that I was in the Redstone Arsenal Color Guard and received reports of their improper handling of the American flag. I said, “you lower your flag every time someone dies. You can’t do that bro.” I also reminded him they had government contracts and it looks awkward when they do not follow government policy. The President’s proclamation gives a timeline on when the flag should go back up to full staff. All flags are to be unison; lowered to half-staff the same day and then raised to full-staff on the same day.

The history of the Clayton E. Moneymaker American Legion Post 237 in Huntsville dates nearly to the origin of the American Legion itself. It was founded under the leadership of’ Lt. Col. Theodore Roosevelt Jr. with veterans of the American Expeditionary Force in Paris in March of 1919, five months after the armistice that ended the Great War (WWI).

The earliest origin of Post 237 dates to June of 1920 with the activation under a temporary charter of the Peter Crump Post, the first Post in Madison County. Since its earliest days Post 237 has been a leader in the growth and development of Huntsville and Madison County and has supported our Nation’s military service veterans. Its members have included celebrated military heroes from Madison County, distinguished government, civic, public service, and business leaders.

Between 1925 and 1926 the Post was reorganized as Huntsville-Madison Co. Post No. 37 and held its meetings at Riverton School near the Flint River. This early Post was active in securing military bonuses, war risk insurance, compensation and hospitalization for veterans. A permanent charter was issued for the Post in 1926. During the 1920s and the 1930s the Post provided numerous community support services including raising thousands of dollars to fund a local infants’ hospital and leading a movement for creation of a municipal airport. The Post sponsored a $7800 prize fight with 60,000 people in attendance for the development of local industry. Meetings were held in the homes of Post members throughout the county.

During WWII the Post led many community services including the establishment of air raid stations throughout the county and collection of records of fighting men.

In 1983, the Post built its present home at 2900 Drake Avenue. In 2015, County Post 237 voted to change the post name to Clayton E. Moneymaker American Legion Post 237 in honor of a distinguished past Post Commander and Adjutant.

From the 1990s to the present, the Post has remained active in the support of veterans and the community. Among its many civic and veterans support activities the Post donates to the Tut Fann Veterans’ Home, supports homeless veterans, and has collected and distributed aid to tornado and hurricane victims. The Post continues to sponsor Boys State, American Legion baseball, local JROTC programs, and the American Legion Oratorical contest. The Honor Guard conducts military funeral rites for veterans.

Post 237 is honored to have Gary “Mike” Rose as one of its members. In October 2017, Mike Rose was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his heroic actions in Septem- ber 1970 in Laos.

Post 237 has grown to be the largest American Legion Post in the State of Alabama. The Post home serves as a meeting place for many other veterans’ organizations in North Alabama and offers weekday lunch and nightly entertainment in the social quarters.

Ed note: John Carson, an author and frequent contributor to Old Huntsville magazine, was a long-time member of the Post as well as taking part in the honor guard. John died in April of 2021 and is missed by so many.

For more information regarding the history and activities of Post 237 please visit our website at: www.legion237.com

His education: When it came time for this kid to go to school, the idea of leaving home and going some unknown place with people he didn’t know was very unsettling and really activated his shyness. First day, the kid hid under the table on the porch and his mother drove him to school but he would not voluntarily get out of the car.

His mother asked the principal to try to persuade this shy kid to come in to see what was being taught and who his classmates would be. As part of the principal’s effort, he saw a road grader. The school was on a gravel road and the grader was about to begin the day’s work. The sound of a small motor started and he explained that the small motor was needed to start the big motor on the big machine. But it didn’t work. The principal explained that the kid would learn about these machines in

school. That didn’t work either. As years went by, this turned out to be a LIE. The kid didn’t trust him after that and he never regained the kid’s complete trust.
On the way home the kid’s mother told the kid that she and his father had worked hard and sacrificed a lot so the kid could go to school. Because he didn’t want to see his mother cry again he went to school without much argument.

In the first grade, the kid remembered being taught how to count up to 10. But the teacher spent so much time on that, the kid became bored. On one fateful day, the teacher was ill and a ninth-grade young woman came over to keep the students in line and maybe teach something. She went past 10, then 100, then 1000 and the world of numbers opened up and the world would never be the same again. Numbers became millions, billions and on to infinity Number puzzles were a favorite pass-time.

One thing more about his education. The kid hated literature, it was useless, even painful. He had a problem that teachers ignored. The words and letters would, most times, be jumbled. 

“Almost” hidden because this very special place, located in what was one of the hangers of the Old Huntsville Airport, can barely be seen if you are traveling west on Airport Road towards Leeman Ferry. If you aren’t looking for it, you’ll miss it. This special place protects bits of military history dating back to the Revolutionary War. It is Huntsville’s U.S. Veterans Memorial Museum, a project that volunteers took in hand many years ago.

Incorporated in 1986 as a non-profit, the idea of the museum was in its baby years. The founder had been collecting military memorabilia and articles for most of his life and everything was being kept in a storage area in Gadsden. When a heavy snowstorm came through one year, the unit’s roof caved in and he relocated everything to a warehouse in Huntsville.

Over the years following this move, the old hanger became available and a group of supporters were able to secure the location to house this history. The location had once also been used for Huntsville’s work release inmates. Much had to be done to prepare the old hanger and transform it into the home that would hold a part of our country’s military history. Many supporters helped with the transformation. On Veterans Day 2001, and as a tribute to lives lost on 9-11, the museum was officially opened. An entire military collection, acquired over a good 50 years, was now part of the museum and this was just the beginning. Since then, through donations of memorabilia, the museum has outgrown itself and volunteers are working with the city to expand the museum. I was not that familiar with the Veteran’s museum and, being a female, thought that the museum was only about war.

The boards from these crates were used back then in the building of some of those older homes that are now being torn down and replaced with modern ones. So if you happen to see a board in some of those discarded wood piles with letters and numbers stamped in black with a lot number, that’s probably a board from a crate. Just a little trivia!

I took a little stroll, with David my guide and hubby, to the Library/Archives area where I met some of the most entertaining gentlemen: Rob (Robley) Director of Archives, Ken (Magnant) IT Manager, Harlan (Hurley) Editor Manager and David (Jaeckel) News Letter Editor. These gentlemen are all responsible for maintaining, cataloging and entering data for the museum’s database and archives.

I met Claire and Sara just down the hall, working in the library, which now has at least 13,000 books cataloged, all pertaining to the military, past and present. Claire is a nurse at the Senior Center during the day and Sara is a student at UAH, studying for her Masters in History. Restoration is another area where volunteers help. My David has volunteered in that area.

The Restoration area is located off Leeman Ferry in a Maintenance Warehouse. Here, procured vehicles, some from past wars, lie in wait for repair and future entry to the museum. It is slow work and tedious.

Right now, David and Don (Davis) are refurbishing an M3 Stuart Tank. Don has been a volunteer at the museum for 22 years and really seems to enjoy his volunteer work. There are probably at least 50 or more volunteers helping to maintain this hidden treasure. I was fortunate to meet just a handful.

Volunteers are veterans, students and just everyday Huntsvillians wanting to help keep this very meaningful part of our military history alive.

I would like to say thank you to the volunteers who have dedicated a part of their lives in the preservation of our military history and for contributing a lifelong collection to the museum. I also say another thank you for all the work and effort in establishing such a wonderful memorial for our veterans, past and present.

It was several years ago when I received a request from a relative wanting to borrow my Buick automobile for about 2 hours to go shopping at Parkway Place Mall. I told her that would be okay.

Two hours later I received a telephone call from her. She told me she had finished shopping but could not find the Buick in the parking lot. She said she had walked several parking rows in the area where she always parks, and the Buick was not to be found. I told her I would be there in about 15 minutes.

As I was driving my truck to Parkway Place Mall my thoughts went back in time to years ago when I had another vehicle stolen and it was a horrible experience. In this incident the driver went around a curve too fast and crashed into a roadside mailbox. 

A witness said he jumped out of my car and ran from the scene. I spent many hours dealing with the Police Department, towing company, impounding lot company and finally the auto body shop.

Additionally, I received a telephone call from the owner of the roadside mailbox wanting me to pay for his destroyed mailbox. I explained to him that it was a stolen vehicle and I had no responsibility to replace his mailbox.

I never heard from him again. When I arrived at Parkway Place Mall my relative was upset, believing like me that the Buick was stolen.

I told her we would start at one end of the parking lot and drive each parking row looking for the Buick before we telephoned the police. I told her that as we entered each parking row to push the horn button on the Key Fob so that if the Buick was in that row, we would hear the horn blow.

Along with proper nutrition, several factors will help ensure the health and comfort of pets during the winter. Pets of all ages should be in good body condition prior to and during winter months to withstand colder temperatures. Providing the special care your pets need during cold weather may require extra work, but helping ensure their well-being and comfort makes it well worth the effort.

As the temperature falls, cats and dogs need more food. On average, dogs require about 7.5% more food for each 10-degree drop in temperature. Feeding your pet twice a day may help ensure that he gets enough food. If you do change from once-a-day to twice-a-day feeding, do so gradually over a 7 -10 day period.

During cold weather, pets should have fresh, unfrozen water available at all times. Adding warm water to a dry dog food diet can help make sure the dog’s water intake is sufficient.

Even animals acclimated to the outdoors have trouble during the winter. Please do not leave a dog or cat who has become accustomed to a warm house outside. If you are uncomfortable, certainly your pet is as well. Older animals and nursing mothers and their babies need special attention and, if possible, should be brought inside.

For animals who must spend any time outdoors, adequate shelter is a must. Keeping pets dry and protected from winter winds is essential. Dog houses should face away from the wind, have warm, dry bedding such as clean straw and have a doorway that is covered by a rug or some burlap.

Our animal friends give us so much, the least we can do for them is provide the necessities to ensure their safety, health and happiness – not only in winter but all year long.

Heavy storms on the night of March 15, 1938, almost caused a major tragedy at Huntsville’s new airport.

The airport, located on Whitesburg Drive, was in reality nothing more than a meadow with a wind sock and a small office. With no lighting, it was woefully inadequate to meet any type of a night-time emergency.

The first sign of impending danger came as Huntsville’s citizens began to hear the drone of airplanes circling overhead, searching for a place to land. With no lights, any attempt at landing would result in a catastrophe.

The group of planes, flying a training mission, had been caught by a pulverizing rain- storm and were miles off their course, when they were drawn to Huntsville by a huge electric arrow atop the Russel Erskine Hotel, and the lights of the city. The roar of their planes brought alarm from the citizenry.

At least one family thought a tornado was coming, and took refuge in the basement of their home, staying there until a radio announcer’s voice informed them otherwise.

Quick thinking by the two state highway patrolmen stationed here played a major part in the safe landing!

Patrolmen S.T. Barrett and Franklin Moore heard the roar of motors, and, looking aloft, saw the cloud-laden sky filled with the circling planes.

Hastening to the local radio station, they had an appeal broad-cast for citizens to drive swiftly to the unlighted landing field and turn their automobile lights onto the broad open expanse, which was little more than a pasture.

Hundreds of automobiles, loaded with passengers, dashed to the field that night to help break the darkness, and to aid the fliers in their precarious attempts to land; The Army birdmen, one by one, commenced to land while breathless citizens looked on. The first plane taxied back up the field late that evening.

Finally, after two very tense hours, the last plane landed. It was this pilot’s escape that provided the biggest suspense of the entire event. Just before touching earth, the ship was caught by a strong gust of wind. It whirled completely about, but the pilot kept his mind alert and settled to safety. He dropped a flare before circling to come in.

“The boys did something proud,” said their commander, Captain D.M. Allison. “But it certainly was a great relief to see the last ship land and start back up the field—right side up.”

Immediately after the planes had landed, Capt. Allison was surrounded by Huntsvillians offering assistance.

To borrow a line from my friend Jim McBride’s song Dixie Boy “I was raised in the shadow of an old cotton mill”. Jim and I were both raised in the shadow of the old Dallas Mill, me just deeper in the shadow.

I grew up in the very first house on Rison Avenue in Dallas Village. Directly across the street from our house was “the Big Ditch”. It has its beginning on Chapman Mountain above Saddletree. This stream meanders past Chapman School down to run parallel to Rison Avenue, under the railroad track into Lincoln Village and onto Pinhook Creek. On a Huntsville topological map, it is called Dallas Branch. To those of us who grew up on it’s banks in Dallas Village, it was known as “The Big Ditch.”

The ditch provided a place for us kids to play. It was great for playing war, use them as bait to fish in our favorite fishing holes along the ditch. 

At times, we even confronted water moccasins. It is amazing that hiding in the weeds and climbing the banks. We would hunt crawfish and not one was ever bitten; because when we were playing in the ditch, they were the furthest thing from our minds.

The real fun with the Big Ditch came when we had heavy rain. The ditch was probably 8 to 10 feet deep and 12 feet across at the top. Branches and trash washing down from upstream would block the flow under the bridges and water would overflow the banks.

Our house was one of the old mill houses. It had four steps to the porch. When the ditch would overflow, it was fun to sit on the porch and watch the water and whatever was floating downstream. Many times, I would sit there and watch the water flow over the second step leading to the porch. When I was growing up, there were two bridges crossing the ditch, one for cars and one for walking. 

It was 89 years ago when the Goldsmith and Schiffman families donated land for the Goldsmith Schiffman Field. The Civil Works Administration provided $6,500 in materials and labor to construct the field, the first in Huntsville to accommodate night athletic games. The Acme Club raised funds for lighting through season ticket sales.

Dedication Exercises were held during the first night game on October 4, 1934, when 1,000 fans saw Coach Milton Frank’s Huntsville High team defeat Gadsden High.
Not a week goes by that I do not meet someone who after hearing my name, asks if I am related to the people who gave the land for Goldsmith Schiff- man Field. After I answer, “yes,” they tell me about their memories of playing football there or watching games.

The Goldsmith Schiffman family donation has provided generations of residents to enjoy sports and community events through the years. The donation of the two city blocks to the city for an athletic field was the first act of philanthropy in Huntsville made by the Goldsmith Schiffman family.

During the year 2000 I approached the Huntsville City School Board to request they provide funds for an historic plaque to tell the story of the Field and they agreed to do so.

First the plaque’s history had to be documented which led to a search for the Field’s dedication in old newspapers. Information about the naming of the Field in memory of Betty Schiffman and Betty Goldsmith, the names of the donors, the Acme Club raising funds for the lights, the Civil Works Administration building the rock wall and information about the first night game had all been forgotten.

Thomas Hutchens at the Huntsville Madison County Public Library found the newspaper article that documented the date the Field was dedicated and all the above information. The Huntsville Madison County Historical Society Committee in charge of Huntsville’s historic plaques met and agreed on the wording for the plaque. Thank you, Thomas, and the Huntsville Historical Society!

The plaque was then constructed and on Friday October 24, 2000, at 6:30 PM a dedication ceremony was held just prior to the Huntsville High/Sparkman high game.

I had asked former manager of the Russel Erskine Hotel and Chairman of Huntsville’s 1955 Sesquicentennial Celebration, my grandfather’s good friend Jimmie Taylor, to chair the event with me. Jimmie had been manager of the Huntsville High Team at the time the Field was dedicated, and we were lifelong friends.

Jimmie knew several players who played during the first game in 1934, Ernest Bailey and Hershel Bingham and invited them to join us and wear sweaters with their HHS letters attached, which they did. Friends were invited together with Huntsville’s City Board of Education, the Mayor and Huntsville dignitaries.

The event was open to the public and a large crowd attended. Jimmie and I both spoke. I wore a traditional Huntsville High School white mum corsage with a red letter “H” attached. In my speech I recounted the history of the Field and at the end I thanked everyone who had been involved with the event and most of all my ancestors who had the foresight to make the donation in 1934.

I quoted a phrase made by Sears Roebuck heiress, Edith Stern, who said, “It is easy to give away money, what is difficult is to give it away wisely.” 

Our troop transport ship, the Marine Phoenix, landed in Pusan, Korea, on February 9, 1951, and we went ashore, anxious to feel good old solid ground under our feet after about three weeks of walking and standing on swaying, tilting steel floors. We had vowed to welcome Mother Earth with a kiss. But boom! Reality hit us! You don’t kiss mud! Especially stinky mud. And there was mud everywhere.

For readers not familiar with the war details, North Korea invaded South Korea on June 25, 1950, and with a much larger army, drove the South Korean army and American occupational forces southward, nearly to Pusan, Korea’s southernmost city, greatly overcrowding it with refugees and soldiers.

By the time we arrived there United Nations forces (mostly Americans) had pushed the enemy back north-ward past Seoul, the capital, to about where the hostilities had begun. But by then the deluge of people and war vehicles had reduced Pusan to one huge slum, even much worse than Huntsville’s Boogertown.

Now about that mud. Like back home, February in Korea was winter-time. Pusan is a coastal city, so gentle ocean breezes had helped to keep the winter milder than inland areas but still it was cold, and there was a thin layer of soft snow covering some of the ground. But most of the snow had become part of the mud, squished into it by military vehicle tires, and thousands of army boots and Korean refugee shoes. Next, and this isn’t pleasant, think about the sanitation problem there. With the population suddenly doubled, hundreds of outdoor privies were necessary. And I’m convinced that some of their odor, as it blanketed the area, was also squished into the mud.

For the first few days, while things were being readied for us to move to up near the front, our home was a tent in a staging compound appropriately called “Tent City”. There I got more acquainted with Lt. Birmingham, Sgt. Hudgins, Jody Gibbs, and a few others, including George Roach, a special character.

It was all foolish, but it was the Army way. But it created for me an arduous, dangerous ordeal.

Not too surprisingly I got only about one hour of driver instruction/training. Steering was scary but I could do it well enough. But shifting gears was a nightmare with those big two-and-a-half-ton army trucks.

Most readers of this have never even seen a gear shift (a metal rod extending upward from the truck floor), or a clutch (a floor pedal in addition to the brake and accelerator). Well, to change gears from first to second I had to depress the clutch, move the gearshift position from first to neutral, push the clutch again, then shift from neutral to second. It’s called double-clutching, and it’s hard as hell for a beginner to learn how to do it, believe me.

When departure day arrived we headed north on the main highway to Taegu, about 70 miles away. Fortunately my vehicle to drive was a weapons carrier, a smaller truck, rated at about a ton-and-a-half. It was loaded with wooden boxes filled with supplies, equipment and arms. Right away I was surprised to see that the “highway” was unpaved. I don’t know if it had never been paved or if it once was and the pavement had been pulverized by tanks and half-tracks.

A few miles out of Pusan we passed through the aftermath of the Battle of Pusan: pushed off into the ditches on both sides of the road were remains of tanks, trucks, half-tracks, and jeeps, ours and those of the enemy.

It brought on eerie feelings of awe for the magnitude of it and reverence for the horror and sorrow of it, At about 30 miles into the trip, as we neared the summit of a small mountain, my motor started knocking loudly. I droveon to the mountain top, then pulled over to the roadside and watched the rest of the convoy pass by and continue on. Then there I was, alone on that mountain top.

It was quiet – too quiet. I was hoping to hear the sound of another truck, the one that Sgt. Rice had promised would be there, the one driven by the motor pool trouble-shooter, Cpl. Bob somebody. Not hear- ing that sound was increasingly unnerving. The first minute had already seemed like ten. It was common knowledge that there were a few enemy guerillas hiding in the mountains! But finally, after about two minutes I heard a truck coming. Thank goodness, it was Bob!

Bob was cryptic. He said it was the flywheel knocking, that there was no quick fix, that he would have to tow me. He coupled our trucks with a 25-foot-long chain, and off we went. But Bob had no way of. knowing that I was not a truck driver, that I had never towed nor been towed. He thought I knew to keep the chain taut. But I didn’t, so when he slowed for curves we got slack in the chain, and then when he accelerated it jerked out the slack, and jerked my truck, causing my cargo to slide a little to the rear.

The first time I saw Aunt Sealy, I had no way of knowing the joy and happiness that short plump woman would bring into my life.

Aunt Sealy was a black woman who earned her living by washing and ironing for people in Dallas Village. She also did work for a few families in Lincoln Village. No matter how hot the sun, or how cold the day, Aunt Sealy toiled long and hard, bent over a washboard in someone’s backyard. Every time you saw her you would see the little cloth sack and walking stick she carried everywhere she went. At the end of a hard day, she was never too tired to stop and say a few kind words to everyone she met. To say Aunt Sealy was a permanent fixture in Dallas Village would be putting it mildly, she was a permanent fixture in the hearts of all those folks who were fortunate enough to know her.

I remember the early mornings when the kids would gather together to see who would be the first one to see Aunt Sealy coming down the street.

Mama didn’t ask her for her help because she knew she couldn’t pay her on the meager salary she made. Aunt Sealy cooked our breakfast every morning and the only pay she asked was the food she ate from our table.

Then came the night my family and I will never forget. It was the last time we ever saw our beloved friend, Aunt Sealy. That night will stay etched in my memory as long as God grants me the privilege of life. On this cold, wintry night the ground lay hidden under a blanket of snow, and the still-falling snow promised another foot or two before morning. The air was filled with our enemy – the North wind. At around 11 o’clock that night someone knocked frantically at our back door, and with every knock could be heard someone crying loudly.

When Mama opened the door there stood Aunt Sealy, almost frozen to death. She was shaking and crying so hard her words were hard to understand. When she was finally able to speak she told us that some boys had torn her house completely down. You see, Aunt Sealy lived in a tent beside the railroad tracks. Her tent was located between Beirne Avenue and the Dallas Mill. That little place had been her home for many years. She told us she had no place to go, on that night so many years ago.

Mama assured her she did have a place to stay, and that place was with us. She told us to just fix her a pallet in a warm place, behind our cook stove. We fired that old cook stove up for all it was worth, and it wasn’t long until Aunt Sealy had a nice warm place to sleep.

Next morning Aunt Sealy was gone. When our household woke up we found the pallet quilts neatly folded but no Aunt Sealy We hunted for days and days for her but no one seemed to know where she was. She had just simply vanished.