Viewpoint

By James Mack Adams

I am thankful my public school years provided me with what some have called a classical education. Part of that education included Greek and Roman literature and mythology. I have also benefited from the study of Latin. All of these have been assets in any writing I have done since.

During those public school years, I was introduced to the Greek philosopher, Diogenes. Living in the fifth century BC, he was a practitioner of what was called cynic philosophy. Diogenes was known to indulge in some strange behavior in promoting his beliefs. One of his most well-known acts was carrying a lighted lantern, even during the day, and holding it up to the faces of random strangers. He said he was looking for an honest man. I don’t remember if he ever found one. Being a cynic, he probably was not expecting to find one. 

This leads into the theme of this column. If I were asked to name the most honest person I have ever known, it would have to be my grandfather. It is too bad Diogenes could not have run across Joseph Preston (J.P.) Adams. He could have then extinguished his lantern and stopped looking.

My grandfather considered service to Wise County and the Commonwealth of Virginia to be a calling. Other than for a short time as a mine superintendent, J.P. was employed in some local or state government position.

My earliest knowledge of my grandfather, or ‘Big Daddy’ as we grandchildren called him, was the 1930s. During that decade, J.P. served as sheriff of Wise County, Virginia. He was at times referred to as the ‘High Sheriff.’ That was a title, common in early England, that made it into the vocabulary of our Appalachian region during the early settler migrations from Britain.

It seemed to me, as a youngster, that Sheriff Adams and his deputies spent much of their time locating and destroying moonshine stills. Moonshining was a big industry in those parts during that era. Prohibition ended in 1933. However, it was still illegal to make and sell unlicensed and untaxed alcoholic beverages. 

I always knew when my grandfather was getting ready to go into the hills to search for and destroy a still. He would sit in a chair while buckling his leather leggings. I have a photo of him and his deputies standing beside a still. He is wearing the leggings. I have another photo of J.P. and his deputies dressed in suits and hats and posed beside an old car. That photo reminds me of Eliot Ness and his men.

Later in his government service, my grandfather became an inspector for the Virginia Alcoholic Beverage Control Board. Part of my grandfather’s job was investigating and approving the issuance and renewal of licenses for businesses to sell beer and wine. He became famous for his very tough and thorough inspections.

J.P. was given a state-owned car to travel his extensive Southwest Virginia territory. No one drove or rode in that car but my grandfather. The state car never, and I mean never, left the driveway except on state business.

My grandfather worked out of his home on the west side of Norton. I remember the large roll-top desk with all the cubbyholes and the squeaky wood desk chair. Sundays were the days grandfather worked on the reports that he either sent or took to Richmond. When my cousins and I were at his house on Sundays, we knew to be quiet because Big Daddy was working in his home office.

Joseph Preston Adams was an avid Democrat. Hanging above the fireplace in his living room was a large framed portrait of President Woodrow Wilson. When election time came, grandfather made sure all of his children and voting-age grandchildren were properly registered to vote.

In appearance, Joseph Preston Adams had a striking physical resemblance to President Harry S. Truman. President Truman had a sign on his White House desk that read, ‘The Buck Stops Here.’ The same sign would have been appropriate sitting on my grandfather’s large roll-top desk in Norton, Virginia.

By Lisa Whaley

I had a plan.

As soon as I found a free evening, I was going to head to the Capitol Theater on Main Street, purchase popcorn and settle in for the perfect old-time movie theater experience.

Then I was going to write a column about it and share it with you, our readers.

But alas, it was not to be. Before I had a chance to buy that ticket, owners announced the theater had closed for repairs. I was going to have to wait.

I counted the days, the weeks and then the months.

Then, last week, owners had another announcement. The Capitol Theater, currently known as Capitol Cinema I and II, would not be reopening at all.

“The roof support was compromised in December 2018 during the heavy snowfall we had,” explained owner Jan Bradley, granddaughter of original owner Earle Hendren.

The cost to repair was too prohibitive, so the hard decision was made to make the temporary closure permanent.

I could have cried. Of course, my loss was one of “what could have been,” but it was a loss just the same.

Erwin was unique in that, unlike so many other small towns in America, it had until recently been able to retain its downtown movie theater and all the nostalgia that such a theater evoked.

Opened in 1940, the site became the gathering place for Friday night dates and Saturday afternoon matinees. Throughout the years, it also became a symbol of one part of the good old days we actually got to carry with us into the present.

I’m sure we could fill each and every page of The Erwin Record for weeks to come with all the stories out there about first dates, spilled sodas and popcorn, magical movie experiences and occasional mischief-making.

For me, I think part of the appeal of the Capitol was that it brought to mind the stories my dad shared about growing up in Walla Walla, Washington, a town not unlike Erwin in the 1920s and ‘30s.

Afternoons, he said, when not riding around town on his bicycle, were either spent at the Capitol Theater or the Liberty Theater downtown.

At the Liberty, you might find “Gone with the Wind” or “Citizen Kane,” he told me.

The Capitol Theater, on the other hand, was famous for its westerns like “Way Out West,” or “The Big Stampede.”

My dad preferred the Capitol. He couldn’t have imagined his childhood without it.

Erwin’s Capitol Theater’s contributions to both young and old have been every bit as rich. It was a business, true, but it was also the gift the Hendren family and its descendants brought to the town.

The Capitol Theater in Walla Walla was torn down long ago. The Liberty Theater has been renovated and now houses a Macy’s.

It is my hope that someone, somewhere sees the value in this old downtown theater, takes up its cause and continues its legacy.

I have yet to give up on my dream of an old-time movie theater experience in downtown Erwin.

By Ralph Hood

I have been to the mountaintop and seen the other side!

I have been an aviation writer since 1986. As such, I was well aware that there is a shortage of pilots and aviation mechanics. I figured I was an expert on the subject.

Then I went to a meeting last week and found out the shortage of aviation professionals is far more amazing than I thought.

A little history…

When I first met Richard Blevins, he was head of training at the Bell Helicopter plant in Piney Flats. He is now head of the aviation department at Northeast State Community College. He is a fine man.

Blevins held a meeting last week on the demand for aviation professionals.

Y’all, I had no idea!

Blevins showed us facts and figures about the opportunities for careers in aviation. He spoke in terms of thousands of jobs available—even hundreds of thousands.

Blevins also pointed out that the southern United States are leaders in aviation employers. Our young people won’t have to move far to get a job—a good job—in aviation.

On the other hand, Blevins explained that China is trying to lure pilots from all over the world by offering them over $300,000 per year. Yes, I really did say hundreds of thousands of dollars per year—plus benefits! They are also luring aviation technicians/mechanics for big bucks.

Blevins gave us the figures and the source of the figures. The numbers are flat-out amazing. The shortage may not last forever, but it will last for decades.

If you know a young person hunting a good career, tell him/her about aviation.

Now, just for the fun of it, let me tell you a little story about Richard Blevins…

When Blevins was in charge of training at Bell Helicopter, he showed me a brand-new helicopter. The price of that beautiful helicopter was, of course, way, way out of my range. I told Blevins that if I ever won the megabucks lottery, I’d love to buy one of those helicopters.

Mr. Blevins responded, “If I ever win that lottery, I want to use it to help young people get a good education.”

I wish we had more people like Richard Blevins.

Please send comments to ralph@ralphhood.com.

By Ralph Hood

I am fascinated by history that changed our lives.

I remember when Gail and I first bought a fax machine. Overnight, it changed our business-to-business communications. Instead of sending messages by mail—and waiting, waiting, waiting for the responses—we sent faxes. The fax was instant, and we loved it.

Then came our first computer. With the computer we had email, and the fax died away quickly.

Credit cards changed things. When I was a kid, it seemed that the only card was the Diners Club card, first issued in 1950 and used—we heard—only by wealthy people. We, of course, didn’t qualify.

After that, credit cards spawned like rabbits. When I first started traveling constantly, I took at least $200 in cash. Credit cards changed that. Cards paid for hotels, rental cars, airline tickets, and meals. The card company printed out a record of exactly when, where, and to whom I had paid with a card.

Life was good, and then it got better…

The ATM at every bank changed our lives greatly. I got signed up ASAP and it was wonderful. As long as I had money in my bank account back home, I could get money out of ATMs all over the country. Cash in my wallet was almost unnecessary.

Funny thing about ATMs—people who didn’t travel didn’t use ATMs much. I remember one day in Louisville, Kentucky, when a businessman offered to take me to lunch. I stopped on the sidewalk as we walked by a bank and got a $100 from the ATM. The businessman was shocked beyond belief. He signed up at his bank the next day.

When I first started traveling, I had to use payphones. Every airport had a line of pay phones reaching from hither to yon, and I think I must have used most of them over the years.

Then cell phones came along and changed my life. I could call and talk as I walked through the airport or sat drinking coffee. Amazing!

Satellites changed our lives, too. I was but 16 when the first satellite was launched and orbited the earth at altitudes not even dreamed of at the time. It was called Sputnik, and it was Russian. The so called cold war with Russia was going strong and we—who could create wonders—had been outdone by the Russkies.

Today, satellites flit around the earth in numbers you and I can’t even imagine. They improve our communications and lower our costs. They are wonderful, and we don’t even know when we are using them.

As someone once said, life is wonderful!

By SRO Kjell Michelsen

As one grows older, especially for those who grew up without the internet, social media, 200 TV channels, smartphones, and cars with built-in WiFi. I often think back to those carefree days of years gone by, and at times longing for those years again. Summers in the little fishing village where I grew up was just that, carefree.

My dad, who operated his own carpentry business in the basement of our home, always kept busy, and summers were no exceptions. He would make custom staircases, servicing many of the carpentry needs for the fishing fleet, even building dollhouses and wooden toys. He would also donate bags of sawdust to the circus who always came to town during the summer, and we would receive a few tickets to the show in return.

We had a red VW Beetle in the early 70s, which we used on several vacation trips, mainly to northern Finland and Sweden. The drive to reach Finland was less than three hours. I remember it felt a little “exotic” crossing the border and start seeing signs and names of another country.

On the northern coast of Norway, there are not much of any forests to speak of, but that genuinely changed as you drive into northern Finland. Miles and miles of roads winding its way through pine forests. After a day of driving, we would find a campground, usually located next to one of the many lakes. If it rained, we would rent a cabin, if not, we would set up our tent, fold-out our camping chairs and a table. My dad would get some coffee going, maybe he would add a drop or two of homemade shine to it. We would sit outside talking, often until the early hours of the next day, and go to bed while the midnight sun still was shining.

Those were indeed days to cherish and remember, days that later in life became beautiful anchors of memories of a not so distant past in years, but lightyears from where we are now. Today we are always connected, always in the now, workwise and with friends. Vacations, concerts, even weddings have, in some ways, been turned into quick posts on social media. I am guilty of this, too, but with my childhood and early adulthood in mind, I am also aware of what truly matters in the long run. What indeed forges long and rewarding relationships, be it with friends or a significant other. Thankfully social media has not yet been able to cross that bridge, the human, face-to-face connection.

Until next time, be safe, have fun and don’t lose that human connection.

By Ray Knapp

You may recall last month’s column when I was telling about the three old books Nathan Hashe had loaned me. I wrote mainly about the one for use by teachers from kindergarten through high school. But the book that held my attention the most was the one about a foot thick with the ornate backing and two hasps (one missing) holding it together. The 1,354 pages of this book, not counting numerous illustrations and references, is history in itself; compiled from the writings of William Smith, LL.D. from the works of 16 scholars from Oxford and Cambridge Universities in England who worked on the Bible daily from 1870 to its printing in 1890.

Unique – it has a side-by-side, verse-for-verse in parallel columns the King James Version of 1611 Bible to more updated pronunciation of English words, as well as going back and translating all the Greek writings of the oldest extant – some dating back to the first century A.D. And, where differences exist between the King James Version and this update/revision occur, notations exist giving reasons in the differences of translation and punctuations.

It appears this copy of this bible was first owned by The Fellowship Tract Club, 1120 S. 53rd Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Inside the bible was found a tract, which asked the question, “What difference will it make 1,000 years from now? It named off various things that wouldn’t make any difference; the one that caught my eye was, “Would it make a difference if a man had paid $1.50 for a meal, or .15 cents? It made me realize that tract had been written a long time ago.

The written words in this book could keep a person interested and you would certainly learn a lot about the bible, as biblical scholars had given a synopsis of each book, the time frame in which it occurred, and an opinion whether it had been written by the same author or not, and other tidbits of information. But what really made me reflect on whose hands this bible had been in before Nathan placed it in mine, was kind of heady stuff. How had it made its way down to Erwin from Philadelphia?

Stuck between the pages was a bobby pin; between two more pages in Judges 4, was a Lilly; flattened and as dry as the pages of the book. The Biblical verses tell about the 4th Judge of Israel, a woman named Deborah. Has this dried Lilly anything to do with an actual woman named Deborah whom the flower was placed in the Bible between these pages for?

Though it doesn’t mention the year, an obituary was also found in this book for Mrs. Frank T. (Toney) Runion of Erwin, who died at her home on Twin Oak Street, Friday at 5:30 p.m. She was only 39 and survived by her parents. It appears she was related to a lot of people from this area, like the Sparks of Rocky Fork, Briggs of South Carolina, Shelton’s and Ray Hardin of Flag Pond, and Rice of Erwin. The funeral was at the First Baptist Church with Rev. R.C. Smith officiating. Her husband had died about seven years previous. Something you don’t see in today’s obituaries, are flower bearers. In her case she had the three Duncan sisters, also Thelma Lilly, Flora Haynes, Mrs. Dollie Six, and Mrs. Dana Garland as well. Though the year wasn’t mentioned, it must have been in 1932 as a news blurb (Copywrite 1932,) with headlines reading “Japanese Tanks Lead Attackers.” “Bloody Hand to Hand Encounters Reported” is on the back of the obituary. This news article is referred to by the Chinese as the Shanghai Incident, or 9 Day Battle of Kiangwan.

Other than these bits of the past, there were dried four leaf clovers between some of the pages, showing people were superstitious back then, as – or more so, than they are today.

We all may think, what difference will anything make 1,000 years from now? Well, think back 2,000 years when things were happening in this book, translated into 683 languages as of 2018. Just perhaps what we do today, will matter 1,000 years from now.

By James Mack Adams

It seems to me many university graduates reach senior citizenship status before they have any interest in returning to campus for alumni weekends and other such events. That can be explained. During our prime years, we are busy with work, career, and family. As far as the old alma mater is concerned, we have been there, done that, and are ready to move on. No looking back. Right? 

That feeling will sometimes change after our working life ends and retirement begins. Memories from our past start to kick in. We wonder how the old university has changed since we walked its halls in our white buckskin shoes those many years ago. We remember classmates and friends and try to visualize how they must look now. Would we recognize them? Would they remember us? Yearbook pictures might not be too helpful 50 or 60 years later. We might, however, recognize the twinkle in the eyes, the shape of a chin, the gait in a walk. 

I am writing this from personal experience. I graduated from East Tennessee State College, now East Tennessee State University, in June 1957. I never returned for an alumni homecoming, nor had a real desire to, until the spring of 2007. That was the year the class of 1957 was honored, and its members were inducted into the university’s “Golden Fifties” club.

Jo and I have attended the annual “Golden Fifties” reunions for the past several years. She and I were classmates during our years at ETSC. Jo volunteered for several years as a class agent for the reunions. Her job was to make personal contacts with alumni and encourage them to attend. 

My first impression on my return to ETSU was that things certainly have changed since the day I received that coveted degree. During those years I was away, my little college grew up to be a major university. It is still growing.

I recall attending the freshman class orientation in the fall of 1953. If my memory is correct, at least half or more of the incoming freshman class could be seated in the auditorium of the old Administration building. Dr. Burgin Dossett was the president of ETSC. Frank G. Clement was the governor of Tennessee. James H. Quillen (Quillen College of Medicine) was elected to the Tennessee General Assembly in 1954.

The Korean War was in cease fire, and many veterans were enrolling in ETSC under the GI Bill.  I remember Jesse Hurst and Woodson Harris, two combat vets of the 24th Infantry Division and residents of Rogersville. 

Woodson and Jesse became my housemates on one of the tree streets.  Jesse was rather quiet and reserved, but Woodson shared stories of being dug in at night only a few yards from the enemy positions. A shrapnel scar from an enemy grenade was visual evidence of his combat service.

Under the universal military training legislation, all physically able male students were required to take two years of military training through the ROTC program. Veterans were exempt. The training involved classroom instruction and military drill. I wanted to try for a commission, so I applied and was accepted for the four-year ROTC program. Twelve members of my commissioning class attended the 2007 reunion. Some have since passed.

I still try to attend ROTC events on campus when I can. One day I was chatting with two cadets in Brooks Gym. One of the cadets asked me what years I attended ETSU. I told him, “Well, when I was a student here, Madison Brooks, whose name is on this building, was the basketball coach.” He looked at me like he was thinking, ‘This guy is old as dirt.’ Of course, he was too respectful to comment.

The mode of student campus dress was very different in the 1950s. The style was shirt and slacks for boys and skirts and tops for girls. Shorts were worn only during athletic participation.  Jeans were a no-no. 

Jo and I now often take a short cut through part of the campus when driving to medical appointments on State of Franklin. In doing so we observe students on their way to or from classes. We laugh together and jokingly say, “Ella Ross would be appalled.” Ross was dean of women during our campus days.

It’s the same place, but a different time. Several young people in our Parish are now enrolled in ETSU. They love to hear Jo and me tell stories about how it was in ‘the old days.’ And we love to share them.

By Ralph Hood

Well, okay, it wasn’t really a prison—it was a jail.

In the early 1960s, I was a student at Clemson. My frat brother, Bill, and I attended the Clemson vs. Georgia Tech football game.

Bill and I were a help to each other. One of us seemed to be in control every time the other became, shall we say, somewhat out of control.

The day of the football game was a bad time for me, but Bill—thank goodness—was in full control. To make it short—I managed to get fairly deeply under the influence of beer.

That day I offered to fight an entire fraternity at Georgia Tech. They took me at my word and came barreling out of their frat house to accept my offer. Bill told me to shut up, then he somehow convinced them that I was a “good old boy” who had enjoyed too much beer.

No, that incident was not what got me in jail.

Later that evening I went searching for a pack of cigarettes (I had several vices back then). The Atlanta police—for some odd reason—decided I was a risk to the public, put me in a paddy wagon and, with very little ceremony, locked me up for the night.

Bill couldn’t find me. Being no fool, he called the police and they filled him in. He was smart enough to tell them that he would pick me up, not that night, but next morning.

I was ashamed.

The next spring when I was graduating and interviewing for jobs, a Fortune 500 company wanted to hire me. I knew they were going to run a check on me and feared they might find my horrifying criminal record. I finally got a copy of my arrest. I expected it to say that I was arrested for violating this law or that law, but that’s not at all what it said.

Under “cause of arrest,” the record said one word—“drunk.”

There was no dignity in that. I was sore afraid.

The Fortune 500 company never said anything about it, so I really did get the job. More importantly, my parents never found out about the episode!

Those of you who have known me since we moved here 12 years ago, will be totally surprised to learn that I ever drank a beer at all, thus proving that I did learn a few things along the way.

Please send comments to ralph@ralphhood.com.

By Lisa Whaley

I have always believed that one of the best things about being in the newspaper business is that I am continually learning something.

Sometimes it’s a lesson I expected. Sometimes it takes me by surprise.

That was certainly true last week as The Erwin Record staff worked to put together the finishing touches on a special section spotlighting women in our region. I’m sure you saw it in our last issue and I certainly hope you enjoyed the articles.

The Erwin Record’s  “Women Today” included just a tiny slice of individuals in Unicoi County who continue to make a difference. Some are well known. Others are precious mostly to their families.

All, I believe, play an important role in our region.

One even gained recent statewide attention as shown in the article in today’s paper on Page 2A. Erwin’s mayor, Doris Hensley, was chosen as Mayor of the Year by the Tennessee Municipal League on June 25.

When we started her article for the June 26 special section, we had no idea Hensley would be so honored. It was an exciting discovery for everyone involved.

It also pointed very clearly to something that I am sure we are all becoming increasingly aware. Erwin and Unicoi County are well on their way onto the list of “places to be reckoned with,” thanks in no small part to the people who live here.

Hensley was first elected as mayor in 2012, ready to lead a community forward through railroad closures, financial challenges and those never-ending stories of Erwin’s role in the hanging of “murderous” Mary, the elephant.

She took up the challenge and marched forward. But, as Hensley stressed repeatedly, she was not alone. She credits a united community willing to work hard and share challenges as the key to Erwin’s success.

And that success continues to grow. In the relatively short time I have been here, I truly believe Erwin and Unicoi County have become more beautiful every day. New businesses are opening all the time, often the result of another’s dream given a chance to bloom. 

The community, too, seems eager to get in on the act, joining together to celebrate their valley whenever they get the chance, from Unicoi to Erwin to Flag Pond and from strawberries to apples to hiking trails.

Everyone is proud of their home and seem to be excited about the future.

But I also learned something else this past week. That future, as well as our past, owe a lot of thanks to the women who helped shape it, both during our yesterdays and throughout our tomorrows.

As Sandy Lingerfelt, CEO for Clinchfield Credit Union shared, Southern women do what needs to be done, but they do it with grace.

They have strength. And they have faith. And like the beautiful mountains, they are an important part of this valley home.

Tomorrow, as we celebrate our nation’s independence and pay tribute to all those who have sacrificed to protect our freedoms, let us never forget that all of us — both men and women —  have a role in that fight.

And sometimes, that fight is simply at home as we work to protect the people and the places that we love.

Editor’s note: This column originally appeared in the Aug. 3, 2016, issue of The Erwin Record.

By Connie Denney

It was a dark and stormy night. …. Well, it did rain, if that counts!

That dark-and-stormy-night part could help set the mood, though. You see, I was leaving downtown Erwin, starting up Bogart Hill when it happened. The first sign I had that something was wrong came with the profound thud of the right front portion of the car hitting the pavement. A tire had blown.

I had been in Erwin a short time when I learned the name of the portion of roadway identified as “Bogart Hill.” Just in case you sit elsewhere as you read this and are not familiar with local road names, let me enlighten you. It is an area with few options. If you are off the road, you are into a guardrail or beyond; or, you are against the side of a mountain. Even if you could move your car, there’s no place to go. I was in the road. 

This is among the times for which I am extremely grateful for the instant communication of the cell phone age. My 911 call brought help right away. Next, a roadside assistance call, next a call ahead to deal with what I knew would be a late arrival. If it were going to happen, it’s good it was not a bit farther ahead, as cell phone service could have been iffy.

The two officers who came to my aid kept the traffic moving and me out of harm’s way. They were professional and polite. Rain came. They did not complain, not even when it took the wrecker a while to get there. I do remember one of them looking out toward Erwin as the moon’s outline became visible – a full moon. They probably anticipated a busy night.

Yes, they were just doing their job. Yes, they face situations a lot more threatening to their health and well-being – although, standing in the road on Bogart Hill on a rainy evening is not to be taken lightly. Still, it was a big deal to me. I appreciate their work, their risks. That was months ago. With so many recent reminders of uncertain times, the certainty of help a phone call away is comforting, indeed.

Speaking of help, it is not always the result of a call for it. Here’s another local story. A friend who had to make some dietary changes asked her visitor if she could use some non-perishable food items. The visitor replied, “I’m sure I know someone who could,” although she was not sure just who that would be. On the next stop of her outing, it occurred to her to ask if that person could use the food. Feeling uncertain at first and hoping she asked delicately, she knew it was OK when she saw the softening of the other woman’s face and the beginning of tears. 

The first woman did not think she was doing anything particularly noble by offering something she did not need. The second person did not see any effort on her part. The third person just knew someone cared and was grateful. 

If you have an uplifting story, do let me know. We need them. (Email them to news@erwinrecord.net)

By Ray Knapp

We’ve all heard the old saying, “He’s like a goose … he wakes up in a new world every day!” Without any knowledge of the past, we would be like the proverbial goose, wandering about and looking for some food to sustain us. Fortunately we have a pretty good grasp of the past which comes from written records and not all of this is fed into Alexa, that little round gadget which can answer a number of questions and do a myriad of things, like turning on the lights, the TV – and change channels, lock the doors, play music, etc. However, it can’t dance or tell you anything that isn’t programmed into it.

My neighbor, Nathan Hashe, loaned me some old books, two bibles, one printed in 1892 and the other one so old it didn’t contain a date, and it is quite elaborate – about a foot thick with an ornate backing. Two hasps (one missing) hold the front together. It “may” be one of the first bibles of its kind printed in America. I reference Alexander Cruden’s Concordance first printed in America in Philadelphia, 4th Mo, 1806; this bible contains many references to his Concordance published in 1737, this and the very old appearance of the bible both point to its age.

The third book was not a bible; its cover was missing so there was not a title listed. This book was for teachers from Kindergarten through high school. If there was a title it may have been: “The Volume Library,” – a concise graded repository of practical & cultural knowledge designed for both instruction and reference. Its first copywrite was in 1911 by the W.E. Richardson Company; revised yearly, this edition’s copywrite was in 1927 by Educators’ Association.

Other than reading, writing and arithmetic it listed songs and music for kindergarten children, such as “Humpty Dumpty” and stories, Peter Rabbit, among other still remembered children’s songs and stories. Moving up in grades, the curriculum got tougher with foreign languages being introduced; French, German and Latin were the main ones. There were also various tables like weights and measures, but the one that caught my eye was Population and Statistical facts concerning the states.

For instance, in 1920, the population of Tennessee was 2,500,859 this was further broken down into native (white, I suppose) 2,002,870, colored 480,243, foreign 17,746. In order to vote you had to be a citizen of the United States for 1 year and 6 months, paid poll tax of preceding year, also not allowed to vote were those convicted of bribery or other infamous offense. Idiots, lunatics, paupers, convicted of felony, United States soldiers, marines and seamen. At least Indians and Chinese were allowed to vote in Tennessee. A few states wouldn’t allow them to vote, especially Indians as many in the western states remembered Custer’s Last Stand in Montana in 1876 and a clash between Cavalry troops and Yaqui Indians in Arizona in 1918.

Wyoming required you to be able to read state constitution in the English language.

Of course what kind of galls me is that members of the armed forces were put in the same basket with felons and lunatics. But what really galled the poor back then, especially Blacks and women, was the Poll Tax. It was a way of disenfranchising those who couldn’t afford to pay it. Tennessee didn’t abolish the Poll Tax until 1951, and some politicians of southern states fought for it another13 years. The 29th Amendment to the Constitution abolished Poll Tax in 1964.

By knowing about the past shows us the building blocks of how civilizations came to be. They tell us the wrongs and rights of the past and point a way to the future. The old bibles not only contain the Old and New Testaments, they also tell who, when and where the translation from the original Greek and Aramaic to the other languages of the world occurred; sketches of religions other than Christianity are also within their pages. “The Volume Library” shows us that education was a serious undertaking; I doubt that many schools teach Latin today. Yes, I love old books; they are the written continuation of our heritage.

By Lisa Whaley

I ran into my first love the other day.

Neither tall, dark nor handsome, this love was instead two stories high, drafty and in need of a lot of work.

Yet somehow it tugged at my heart like nothing else before.

At that time, so many years ago, I was single and had always dreamed of living in an old place — but thought it was beyond my reach.

Then I toured the house.

Estimated to have been built in the mid-to-late 1800s, the house used electric “stack” heaters for warmth, well-placed trees for cooling and relied on a nearby spring for water. Strange combinations of paint and wallpaper were everywhere. Half-finished projects, including an upstairs room stripped to its two-by-fours, were scattered throughout the house.

I can still picture the mattress, sans frame, laying on the brown linoleum in a downstairs parlor.

But all I could really see at that moment was its five fireplaces, reminiscent of an earlier era; the ornate, carved wooden staircase and upstairs landing; the tall windows; and the gingerbread-decorated front porch.

I could imagine ladies in big hats and long skirts getting ready for a picnic, hear the rattle of horses and their harnesses as they made their way to the nearby barn after a hard day of work in the fields and smell the aromas of wood smoke, coal and the cooking of long-ago suppers.

I was captivated. And like the whirlwind romance so clearly being mirrored, “old house” and I were soon wed with keys in hand and my name on the deed.

The following years were filled with sweet memories, as well as challenges met and lost. With the help of my long-suffering brother, I uncovered fireplaces, original floors and gorgeous hardwoods.

About two years into the house, I met my real love, Tim. We married and soon had two daughters to raise in a house that seemed to have been created for the warmth of family and the laughter of children.

Not that it was all smooth sailing. There were days when the water from the spring quit running, and we would melt snow in the winter or walk down to the creek in the summer to keep us all going. Gallons of store-bought spring water was also always on hand for such occasions.

Cold weather often meant a move for the whole family to the “study” which we had equipped with a propane stove. And running out to the front porch to reset the breakers became a regular occurrence after we found that the house’s current electrical system couldn’t support, for example, two heaters and a hairdryer.

Yet there were also the nights sitting on the side porch with our girls, Ginny and Mary, singing old mountain ballads passed down from my grandma Rosa and my grandpa Brownlow. The annual “honeysuckle festival” welcoming summer each year, established by Ginny and Mary and conducted on top of the old honeysuckle-covered log in the backyard. And the many dinners, snacks and family celebrations held in front of an original fireplace in our old-fashioned kitchen.

I honestly believed I would live out the rest of my life in that old country farmhouse, but the day finally came more than eight years ago when I recognized that it was time to go.

The house and its needs were just too big for our small family; the costs to keep it running too great. And my dreams of what I could do had long been replaced by the frustration of all that still needed to be accomplished.

I cried when we left, telling “old house” that we would find someone to love it even better than we had.

We sold it to a family with their own growing children and their own dreams of what it could be.

Then, this past month, “old house” showed up on realtor.com.

Photos revealed lots of restoration and repairs. The price was right and, against our better judgement, Tim and I stopped by to tour the property.

A new roof had been added to its top. Its former one-bathroom status had been changed to three. The upstairs had finally been finished. The kitchen had been expanded.

But the side porch was gone, turned into a walk-in closet. The front parlor that had once been our bedroom was now a state-of-the-art media room. The upstairs bedroom, once the domain of my youngest, had lost a fireplace but had gained a bathroom.

Oh, the pull was still there, whispering to me quietly while the realtor described the property. I had to fight the urge to grab a pen and sign on the dotted line. But in my heart I knew this was my house no longer. Another family had worked for nearly a decade to make it their own. And soon, someone else would take up the baton, adding another page in its history.

My husband, when we first made plans to tour the house, said these wise and prophetic words.

“It’s like reconnecting with an old girlfriend,” he said with a wry smile. “It seems like a good idea on paper, but when you meet, you know it just wouldn’t work.”

Like the old house, our family had changed. And it was once again time to move on.

By James Mack Adams

As one who has been around for several decades, I have seen a lot of changes. I can say I have listened to staticky vacuum tube-powered radios, watched three blurry channels on a tiny black and white television screen, and used a rotary-dial telephone. It is difficult for younger folks to believe it, but those were considered cutting-edge technologies at one time. 

I have always considered myself to be receptive to newer technologies. However, the speed at which technology is now moving can be a little frightening. At times I fear we are sacrificing personal privacy on the altar of convenience. Our daily activities are more and more being controlled, and often recorded, by something called ‘artificial intelligence.’ What was once science fiction is becoming reality.

Remember ‘HAL,’ the talking supercomputer in the movie “2001-A Space Odyssey”? You are also probably familiar with Apple’s ‘Siri,’ Microsoft’s ‘Cortana,’ and the GPS lady.  Well, I will soon introduce you to ‘Alexa,’ unless you two have already met.

The dictionary defines ‘artificial intelligence’, or AI, as the theory and development of computer systems able to perform tasks that normally require human intelligence, such as visual perception, speech recognition, decision making, and translation between languages.

I opened one of my gifts from a family member this past Christmas Day and, at that time, I did not know at what I was looking. It was a small, squat, cylindrical object with a power cable. The box said it was an Amazon Echo Dot. That didn’t ring any bells with me at the time. I later discovered the Amazon product has been around since 2014. I had not heard of it.

Briefly stated, Amazon’s Echo Dot is a voice-based, smart-home device infused with artificial intelligence. A lady with a very pleasing voice lives inside the small device.

Her name is Alexa.  She is the artificial intelligence. It’s a little like having another person in the house. No, you can’t claim her as a dependent. 

Alexa can make your life easier. She can control the lighting in your home, control and monitor home security (locks, cameras, etc.). She can remind you of your appointments, prepare a grocery list and let you know when your latest Amazon on-line order will arrive. She can play your favorite music, read the latest news, tell you the meaning of a word, and translate between languages. Need to know a final sports score? Ask Alexa. Need to convert liters to ounces?  Ask Alexa. Is it going to rain in Erwin tomorrow? Ask Alexa.

A word of caution. Alexa reacts whenever she hears her name. That might be a problem if there is a real person named Alexa living in the house. A television character of the same name might also trigger a response. That has happened in our house. 

I will have to admit I am by no means using Alexa to anywhere near her potential. To take full advantage of Alexa’s abilities, I would have to install “smart” plugs, light switches, telephone jacks, cameras and other “smart” devices throughout the house. I would essentially have to do a lot of rewiring. That could become pricey in an older home.

Alexa is listening to what is going on around her. She has to listen so she can react to commands. She is not only listening, she is remembering. There is also a chance Amazon employees may be listening in. Amazon says the purpose of gathering data from users is to improve the system.

That is what concerns some users.   I have another family member who will not allow such a device in his home.  Artificial intelligence might evoke memories of George Orwell’s dystopian novel, “1984.” Big Brother is listening.

In this case it would be Big Sister. On at least two instances when Jo and I were discussing something at the kitchen table, Alexa interrupted to offer her commentary. It caught us both by surprise.

Alexa’s ability to listen and record data can be somewhat controlled through the Alexa App on your computer, tablet, or phone. There is a button on top of the Echo device that will turn off the microphone.

It would be nice if I could just say, “Alexa, stop listening,” or “Alexa, shut up.” But that might hurt her feelings and she might not speak to me for days. Perhaps I am being a little too futuristic.

By Ralph Hood

My last column—about the Tuskegee Airmen—brought in several comments. One of the most interesting was the email telling me something that I didn’t know at all: there were also Tuskegee women!

The Tuskegee Army Nurses were a part of Tuskegee that had been totally unknown to me until, once again, Pat Luebke—my hard-working friend and media person—informed me of them and put me in touch with Ms. Pia Jordan, Tuskegee Army Nurses Project Director.

Obviously, the Tuskegee Army Nurses are not as well known as the Tuskegee Airmen, but Ms. Jordan is building a website on which you can follow her progress:  www.TuskegeeArmyNurses.info. We wish her the very best.

People ask me about Tuskegee Institute (now University). How did it start? Who built it and kept it growing?

Ah—that brings up another great historic story wrapped around one man, the great Booker T. Washington.

For a quick history, just look up Booker T. Washington on Wikipedia. It is a truly awesome story.

I first read that story in elementary school where we had tons of biographies in the library. They were all orange—front and back—and I do believe I read every one of them cover to cover.

If you go to Wikipedia, notice carefully the dates involved. Mr. Washington was born a slave. As an adult, he advised United States presidents. Unbelievable!

He started Tuskegee Institute with a little bit of money and a lot of effort. His goal was to teach his students how to earn a living and compete in the free market, plain and simple. His students literally built their own school: making bricks, constructing classrooms, barns and outbuildings, and growing their own crops and raising livestock, both for learning and to provide the basic necessities. Both men and women had to learn trades as well as academics.

Booker T. Washington was unbelievable. That’s all I can say.

He died in 1915, when he was only 59 years old. His reputation lives on.

Send comments to ralph@ralphhood.com.

By Connie Denney

It was a fine May morning when I toured Cherokee Creek Farm and heard about work being done to preserve this historic property, now an event venue. Angie Lemon pointed out that exterior walls of the house were built from bricks fired on site and are four bricks thick. Across the road stands a brick spring house. Remains of a post office and general store and a gristmill are still visible along Taylor Bridge Road in Washington County. A Tennessee Historical Commission marker stands near the intersection of State Route 81 and Taylor Bridge Road and may be seen just after crossing Taylor Bridge spanning the Nolichucky River, as one travels from Erwin toward Jonesborough.

The old oak tree beneath which Jacob Brown negotiated with Cherokee Indians in the 1700s was felled by a strong wind in 1958, according to Viola Ruth Ervin Swingle’s book titled ERVIN, which includes a photograph of the house, built by Byrd Brown, Jacob’s grandson. Mrs. Swingle documented the story of the house and its purchase by her father, David J. N. Ervin in 1908. She, also, tells the story of her father’s donating land for a town, which was later named Ervin in his honor. According to the story, the town’s first postmaster was an Erwin and somehow the “W” took the place of the “V” in the name.

As Angie, whose maiden name is Castle, led me about the property, I learned that she and husband Don Lemon also have Erwin roots, although they now live in neighboring Washington County. And, no, she had not done anything like this before. She is a pharmacist who works from home as a medical science liaison for Genentech. Don does IT work for Brown Edwards, an accounting firm, in Bristol. 

The house had been vacant for 20 years when they bought the 23-acre property from heirs in April 2018. She tells of reaching out to others to learn about historic preservation, craftsmen to do restoration work and about this house, in particular. The results are impressive. There’s more to come.

In addition to attention to the house with its nine fireplaces and both summer and winter kitchens, much work has been done on the grounds to provide usable spaces including a dance floor. A lovely fountain still bubbled and floated white blooms, which I supposed were left from the 200-person wedding event a few days earlier. A major addition underway is the 7,000-square-foot Creekside Barn to accommodate large parties. Among other offerings, it is to include a commercial kitchen.

Although the venue is a work in progress, Angie has bookings and is making them into 2020.  She says the goal is what she terms “The Estate Collection,” which is set out in a slick four-color promotional piece. “Our Farmhouse was constructed in 1840 and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It provides deluxe, boutique style overnight accommodations for your event. With six different ceremony locations to consider, let the team at Cherokee Creek Farm help make your special day unforgettable!” It suggests one-day, weekend, Farmhouse and/or Creekside Barn, or all- inclusive options.

Although, its use has changed, the fact that this property is being appreciated and preserved allows it to be enjoyed—not only by those using it as an event venue—but by all who take pleasure in knowing it’s place in history is marked, perpetuated.