You Can Go Home Again

YOU CAN GO HOME
by

James W. Lee, Jr.

CHAPTER ONE

RETURN OF THE NATIVES

A shiny new Cadillac headed east out of Nashville on Interstate 40. An old man rested his head and perhaps his eyes, as a somewhat younger companion sat under the wheel.

Several miles hurried by before the older roused to conversation.

"What time should we reach Smithville, Dick?" he asked.

"About one o'clock, I imagine," Dick replied. "I don't think we will have time for visiting if we are to reach Knoxville tonight."

"I agree", said George. "We can do our visiting on the way back. If you don't mind, I think I will cat nap some more. Be sure to wake me before we get to Hurricane Creek bridge."

"Sleep on," said Dick. "I'm in good shape."

The miles slipped by, and soon Dick saw the Lebanon marker; then others, announcing the mileage to Watertown, Silver Point, and Cookville. He would see no Smithville sign until they turned south on State 56.

Smithville--the name of his forefathers! He had been a strip of a lad of twelve when he and the family had left the old home in the fall of 1923. Now, many years and successful careers later, he and George were going home! They had been back a few times, but this trip, somehow, was different. The houses and the people would be much, much older, and many would be gone, but whatever and whoever remained would carry them as close to home as they could hope to be.

As he drove and thought, an ethereal feeling came over him which left him strangely happy, and also strangely puzzled.

"While George sleeps and while you daydream," Jim broke in abruptly, "I am going to try to establish communication with you. Since I left you and my other loved ones, I have tried to hard to make some of you hear me. Also, I have been trying to go back into what you call the past in a much more concrete way than you are able to do via memory. If I can accomplish this, I can find Mildred when she was my beautiful young bride, Jimmy when he was a little boy, and you and George, and Mom and Pop in whatever setting that

seems happiest. I do hope and pray that I can avoid some of the heartbreaks that we knew along the way.

"Right now, I'm going to tell you about a lot of things which happened in Smithville prior to our leaving. Many you won't remember, for you were just a sprout, and were excluded from lots of the activities of the older fellows. There is so much to cover before we get to Smithville, I will need to go pretty fast, so don't interrupt me other than to let me know if I am getting through to you."

"These episodes will not be in chronological order, but just as they come to mind."

"I think I shall start by telling you who lived on our street, and giving you some memorabilia about some of them. It was called Sparta Street then; I think it is now East Main."

As you know, our close and good friends the Hoopers lived just across the alley. I shall talk about them more later on. Next to them were Uncle Trab and Dotie, and Rank, Patsy and Matt. Next was a cross street and then the home of Mr. John and Miss Omagh Foster. Later, Mr. Will and Miss Nannie Mae Atwill and Clysta lived there. I must stop and tell you a little tale about Clysta and me.

She was several years older than I, probably in her early teens. One day I had been to town to buy an ice cream cone , and was rushing home before it melted to share it with you.

When I got even with their yard, lo and behold, there was Clysta lying in the hammock under the big oak tree. I slipped the cone behind my back, hoping to go by unnoticed. But horrors, she saw me!

"Give me some of your ice cream, James", she teased.

I thought she was in earnest, and was torn between avarice and embarrassment.

Finally I reached a decision, and grudgingly held the cone across the fence, hoping that she would take only one lick. She smiled that beautiful smile of hers and said, "I was only joking, James. But thank you very much."

Speechless and with vast relief, I ran for home as fast as my naked feet could carry me.

Mr. Will's garden was just to his west, then a narrow street which dead-ended into East Main: then Miss Mary Magee's house. Dr. Potter used to get a big kick out of my insistence that he bring Miss Mary a baby, as he did for so many of the ladies.

Miss Mary had a small garden to the west; then came the blacksmith shop. I wish I could remember who operated it. I can still hear his anvil ring as he beat showers of sparks out of his white-hot iron.

The shop was on a corner. Across the side street was a large vacant lot, where, long before my time, Miss Greenie Crowder's boarding house once stood. There was a tennis court there for a time. Foster Brothers Hardware Company was on the corner. This was their new store; earlier they had been on the southeast corner of the square, which building they continued to use for a warehouse.

Across on the other corner of East Main and the square was the famous old Webb House, Built in 1837, and still bearing the teeth marks of Civil War cavalry horses on the door-jambs.

Now let's go back east on the other side of Main Street. The old hotel's garden ran to the cross street. Next was the home of Mr. and Mrs. Jim Drake, their garden, then the home of Mr. and Mrs. Will Hayes. It was in front of this house that I buried my quarter in the dust for a game, and never could find it. Some game!

Across the side street was the home of Mr. Edgar and Miss Myrtie Evins, and Dub and Joe. Next was a vacant log cabin, the home of a hant, it was said. This ghostly critter could take on the shape of a real live pony, they would tell you; furthermore, on nights when rain clouds scurried across a worn-out moon, he could be seen galloping wildly about the yard. It was pretty tough on a young fellow going to town after supper; your options were to pass by the cabin or swing south through the cemetery. It was even more terrifying coming home. Thankfully, the pony always became invisible in the light of the morning sun.

To the east of the cabin was the home of Mr. Hatton and Miss Bessie Foutch, and Marjorie, John Thomas and Dan. When Marjorie and Floyd Young were married, Lucy Dell Wade was flower girl and I was ring bearer. Later, the Foutch family moved out on College Street, top of the hill on the left.

After the Foutch garden and barn lot was a cottage which was the home of three different families during my recollection. First was Miss Katie Gay with her mother and daughter. She helped Mama with the housework when I was very small. Her culinary specialty was geranium cake. Then came Mr. Bob and Miss Fanny McClellan; he was the town barber.

Next came the Gibbons Family. He was the Methodist preacher. Myrtle was a little older than I; then Elbert, my close friend and daily companion; and Alva Ready, who was a baby. They were wonderful people. When they moved to Keltonburg, I visited them often and Mrs. Gibbions always treated me like one of her family. Brother Gibbons would pick me up in his buggy, and, after my visit, I would walk home. This was no problem,

for I always traveled light, and the thick dust was easy on my feet. Elbert would generally accompany me part way. What I would give to re-live one of those trips!

Still later, the Gibbons family moved to Tucker's Cross roads. I just had to visit them. They met me in Watertown. I stayed about one week, during which I acquired their 'below the hill' drawl, and fell in love with the little town and its people. One little girl in particular caught my eye. I left her a touching note for Elbert to deliver, asking her to write me. Years later, I sent her a letter which was forwarded to Knoxville where she was in school. I received a nice and much appreciated reply.

Pardon my digression--let's return to our neighborhood survey.

The Gibbons house was the last on the north side of our street. Next was their triangular shaped garden, and then, just across the street from our house, our beloved bluff and creek, on and in which we spent so many happy hours. I can still see the path which cut across the face of the bluff which was our stick horse bridle path; and the cave at the bottom where we trapped for ferocious skunk and possum.

Let's go down the alley to the south. Ours was a large, well tilled, and fertile garden. Talk about your corn, potatoes, beans, peas, onions, big red tomatoes, watermelons, cantaloupes, cucumbers -- we raised them all to eat, to can, and to spare. And those strawberries -- carmine and sweet, and big as pullet eggs! What a shame to convert that hallowed plot to a tobacco patch!

Mr. Fox Simpson lived just south of our garden; then came a large pasture, and then, on the corner, the home of our great friends, the Cheathams. There were Mr. Frank and Miss Mattie, their mothers, Mrs Cheatham and Mrs. Blankenship, and Mary and Mattie Franklin. We visited often. When they would come to our house on cold winter nights, the girls and you and I would play in the back part of the house, while the grown folks entertained themselves with much conversation in the front bedroom. Pop and Mr. Frank would get the Brown Mule going early in the evening, and by nine O'clock would have the hearth tri-sected by vivid lines clear to the back log.

Let me digress. One day, Pop, Mr. Frank, Steve and I drove some calves to the Cheatham farm on the river near Sligo. We took the short way back, following the creek for several miles. I remember one clear deep pool by a rocky ledge that was working alive with fish. Unfortunately, I never got back to catch them.

Steve was an expert with a spear. Where the creek ran clear and about eighteen inches deep, he could really hit those long dark suckers as they flashed by. He knew just how much to lead with his spear, to compensate for the speed of the fish and the refraction of the water. He knew naught of physics, but, more often than not, he would come up with a fish thrashing against his barb. Three or four of those beauties were all I could carry.

Sad to say, all that territory is now under many feet of lonesome water.

As we continued up stream, the gorge became narrower, and we came upon a cleft in the north wall which seemed a good way out. About half way up was a room-sized level place, and there, steaming and bubbling like the caldrons of Hell, was a moonshine still.

Pop said in a low voice, boys, there's a man watching us with a Winchester across his knees -- just keep going. Without breaking stride, we passed on by, and soon the welcome flatwoods spread before us.

Those fish were a tasty reward after such a trip. We never went back for another look at the still.

Now, lets return to our neighborhood survey. East of the Cheatham place was the home of Mr. and Mrs. John Taylor and son, Robert Edward, better known as "Shout". His cousin, Charles (Pie) Taylor, became a fine football player at Tennessee Tech, I was told. Pie's daddy, Mr. Ed, drove a freight truck and is the only man I ever saw who could inhale a cigar as though it were a cigarette.

Just across the street from the John Taylors was a dark red frame cottage, and I believe the Hibdon family lived there.

There was one other house on this street, down on the other end by the cemetery. This was the home of Mr. Hamp Hooper and his wife, cousin Sookie, their three boys, Ernest, Howard (Buh), and John White, and the girls.

A street paralleled East Main on the north, beginning behind the Will Hayes property. Mr. and Mrs. A. J. Goodson lived in the first house; then some vacant lots on which houses were later built; then Uncle Thee and Aunt Lou on the corner; and finally, Mr. and Mrs. Will Webb on the opposite corner. I remember Mabel and Joe. The names of the younger children escape me.

The next building on the street was Uncle Thee's grocery store. This was on the northeast corner of the square. Robert (Pig) and possibly Herman were his partners. It was here that Pop got acquainted with chili. Let Him tell the tale.

" Nannie, I have brought home something good for supper" he stated proudly. "it's called Chile con Carne, whatever that means. A man at Thee's store was eating some today, and it was the best looking dish I ever saw. Fix a can for me, and two for you and Munner and the boys. I want onions and pickles on mine."

The feast was soon ready. Pop took a big spoonful eagerly, and downed it slowly and bravely. He had always been blessed with a hearty appetite and a cast iron stomach.

Munner toyed with a small bite, and a puzzled look came over her face. "Jim, I can't eat this stuff," she said with some difficulty. "It's nothing but tallow and cayenne pepper."

A wave of rejection swept around the table, and Mom Jumped up to fix something else for supper.

The next day, all except Munner came down with that strange new malady called Spanish Influenza. We never really knew whether that Chile con Carne caused the flu, or whether the chili tasted so bad because we were already sick.

There was a big snow on the ground, and that flu siege was bad news for us, as it was for most others in town. Dr. Potter and Uncle Trab kept us going until they came down, and then Ernest Dunn pulled us through by milking and drawing water, and keeping wood on the side porch.

Once again, Pig, many, many thanks. We couldn't have made it without you.

Munner kept a pot of soup on the stove, and managed to stay up until the rest of us could get out of bed. Then, understandably, she collapsed. George was having it much easier in Europe at the time.

As for the chili, we learned years later in Texas that it tastes much better if heated before being served.

Continue to Chapter 2

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