Bits and Pieces

                            Bits And Pieces

    
     Just when you think you have exhausted your memory banks and can no longer conjure up past events something happens to jog the cobwebs of the mind and a long forgotten, uneventful and seemingly useless bit of memory springs forth.  Quite often these bits and pieces of long ago pop up with an odd scent of perfume or aroma as it enters the nostrils.   Sometimes it is listening to someone telling a story or even the roadside scenery as you drive thru the countryside. There is an aroma in the meat department of every grocery store I have ever been in.  It makes me look up to see if my Dad is there slicing a roast out of a side of beef. Our memory banks are filled with past events that await the slightest jogging to bring them out.
    
     I was just watching an episode of Georgia Outdoors and they were showing where an old church used to stand in a rural area. The church was built and attended by slaves and their offspring but all that remained was an outline of the foundation.  A new church sits nearby attended by descendants of the founders.  Now, I'm not what you would call a religious person.  I can't remember the last time I was in a church but there was a time when I did attend on occasion and this documentary reminded me of those times.
     The Baptist church in Lagardo, Tn was a small white wooden frame building with tall windows that let in light and cool breezes.  It is like a scene from a post card.  It sat just off the main road on a slight rise with a forest of oak and cedar trees for a background. There were large outcroppings of limestone boulders dotting the lawn / parking area.  They were worn smooth from years of wear. There was no particular driveway, you just turned off the main road and parked as you chose .
     The pews were made of oak without cushions.  There were two rooms behind the alter where Sunday school and vacation bible school classes were held. There was a steeple on top and although I don't remember hearing it, there was probably a bell in the steeple to call the congregation together. The floors were wooden and echoed with the sounds of the leather sole shoes as people moved about. The church seemed to have a reverberation that intensified the sounds of the people in attendance.  The preacher's voice carried to every corner when he spoke - without amplification. Compared to today's churches it was small.  The whole church would fit into one class room of one of today's mega churches.
     Grandpa Riggan attended the Lagardo Baptist Church every Sunday and most Wednesday nights as did his father. Some foggy memory of the past tells me he was a Deacon of the church.  He was certainly an elder. When I spent the summer with Granny and Grandpa I would go to church and sit beside Grandpa on the hard wooden pew.  Grandpa would have to put his hand on my shoulder to get me to stop squirming. I was too young to really know what was going on but I learned that God was great and Jesus loved me. The sermons could be and were often filled with Hellfire and Brimstone and through them all Grandpa would sit holding his open Bible and nodding his head in agreement with the preacher.  Every now and then I would hear an Amen come from his lips. The congregation was small in comparison with today but everyone knew each other and in some cases several generations of a family were in attendance.  I was known as Mr. Howard's Grandson .
      I was by the church several years ago.  The church still stands just as I remember.  Obviously, the congregation has grown over the years and a newer larger brick church stands a short distance away.  A sign has been erected to let everyone know that an even newer larger church is forth coming.  I am happy to see that with the growth of the congregation they have held on to and protected the past. Grandpa would be proud.


     Grandpa Riggan was laid back and easy going.  He moved with a calm determination as if he failed in his quest, the world as he knew it might fall prey to some major catastrophe.  He was a deeply religious man and found in the Bible a solace that seemed to regenerate his mind and body for the task that lie ahead. Sunday was the Lord's Day, the only work he performed was milking the cows and feeding the animals, beyond that he rested, went to church, prayed and enjoyed his family who came to see him.
     On days when the weather was foul or when his work was done for the day he often picked up his Bible.  One of his favorite places to read was on the front porch. There were several ladder back wooden chairs with cane seats.  Grandpa would pull the chair out from the wall, sit down and lean back until the chair reclined against the wall (this was the predecessor of the recliner),  his feet propped in the stretcher at the bottom of the chair.   He would put on his gold rimmed glasses, push tobacco into his corn cob pipe and read a favorite passage. Granny would some times join him as she shelled beans. When the ol' man winter forced him inside he would pull up an old arm chair next to the window.  Even on a cloudy day the extra light helped him to see.
     There was another side of Grandpa and Granny that most people never saw.   They were wrestling fans. We are talking mega fans!
     Some time in the 1950's their kids got them a TV.  It was small, maybe 19", and was hooked to an outside antenna mounted to the roof.  There were only three channels - broadcast in black and white and by midnight they were off the air until about 6:30 the next morning.  Granny got hooked on the soap operas and Grandpa would watch a few programs at night.  Generally the TV didn't change them from their daily routines until Saturday night.
     On Saturday nights live wrestling was broadcast from the Hippodrome ( an old skating rink ) in Nashville. The event also brought in at least one and sometimes two nearby families to watch the modern marvel. The broadcast was one of the last things on the schedule and didn't get over until around 11:00.  This was the only night they stayed up past 9:30.
     Grandpa and Granny would get so wound up in the fights they would literally come out of their chairs and shout at the screen as if they were in the audience . "Hit him again " or " kick him " was heard quite often. The first time I witnessed the spectacle I was scared.  I had never seen Grandpa get agitated or heard him raise his voice.
     This was the man who I looked up to and even today love and miss .

     Another thing I remember from my time in Lagardo was a small stream that crossed the gravel road that passed Grandpa's farm. The stream meandered thru some woods on his property and the farm animals had a path worn from the paddock to the shallow banks forming a watering hole of sorts.  About twice each summer Grandpa would pull on his milking boots take a milk pail, rags and soap and drive his car to where the stream crossed the road.   He would stop midstream and wash the car.
     When I got older and was allowed to wander off alone I would often find myself at the stream (seems fire and water hold great fascination for young boys).  When I was thirsty it held the sweetest water and I had no problem getting down on my hands and knees to lap at the surface.
      I could spend hours watching the minnows swim around and spider like water bugs glide effortlessly across the surface.  If I was patient I could spy a crayfish and if quick enough catch him.
     Before Old Hickory lake was created the stream would wind through the woods and eventually enter into the Cumberland river a couple of miles down.  I never followed it all the way but did explore a good portion of it.  Most of the stream was narrow enough that I as a small boy could jump from one side to the next. The banks and toppled trees provided me with many hours of fun and excitement and was one of the best classrooms of my youth.
     The road is still narrow and has been covered with tar and gravel and there are several homes where once there were fields.  A concrete pipe is buried where the stream once flowed across the gravel road. The stream itself is a trickle of what it once was.  Like many things, the wheels of progress have stymied the natural flow that once made the stream special. The water I'm sure is no longer sweet or even drinkable. Only in our memory does the world not change .

     Where I live now is about three miles from a railroad and on a calm night even with the house closed up you can hear the trains blow their horns as they approach the crossing.
     As a teen I lived in Mt. Juliet , Tn. which was at that time very much a rural area.  As the crow flies we were about two miles from the main highway (crows didn't lay out the roads though). Lebanon Rd. back then was " the " main highway, and as this was before interstate highways, it was two lanes and traffic was constantly on the go.
      This was 1960.   We lived in a new three bedroom brick house.   Air conditioning was an option then that would take a $12,000 home and add about $1,000 to the total price so therefore we went without.  What we did have was a large window fan that drew outside air thru out the house in the warm months.  On really hot days the house would maybe cool down to tolerable temperatures about 3:00 am.
     Having a fan meant that all of the windows in the house were open.  Screens kept out the bugs but allowed the voices of nature  (crickets , frogs, and owls) to sing us to sleep.
     There was a roadhouse down on the main highway called, if I remember correctly, Twin Gables.  It was sort of a roadhouse / restaurant / beer joint / truck stop with Hank Williams and Patsy Cline singing on the Juke Box.  Truck drivers frequented the establishment nightly and on a calm night I could hear them as they got back on the road heading for Lebanon or Nashville.  I could hear the truckers shift their gears from first to second, from low to high .
     Many was the night I would lie in my bed unable to sleep because of the heat and humidity. Instead of counting sheep I would count gears as the drivers pulled on to the road to continue their journey.  It seemed that you could hear the trucks for miles down the road and when finally I did fall asleep it would be a deep sleep unaffected by the heat.

     Another thing about Twin Gables was it was owned by a man who Dad said was or used to be a magician.  One night Dad took us to Twin Gables and I remember sitting at the bar.  Little brother Ronnie was about 4 or 5 at the time and Dad sat him up on the bar and the owner showed us a small piece of pink foam cut in the shape of a rabbit.  He showed Ronnie the rabbit and told him the rabbit was lonely and needed a friend so he squeezed the foam in his fingers quickly opening them and two rabbits popped out.  Ronnie thought this was the neatest thing but was amazed more when the guy squeezed again this time out popped two rabbits and four smaller ones. They say the hand is quicker than the eye.  I don't know how he did it but Ronnie was astounded.
     I can't remember the man's name or that of his daughter who I went to school with, but the man loved kids.  According to Dad he was performing his magic show in a theater one night when fire broke out and he was able to calmly get  all of the audience, which was mostly kids, out of the theater unharmed.
     Like of lot of things from the past, Twin Gables is only a memory as it caught fire several years later and was never rebuilt.


     My brother Pat and I were only 15 months apart in age.  At Christmas we generally got the same gifts from Santa Clause. Though we are different, Santa seemed to think we were twins.
     One year when we lived in Mt. Juliet Santa brought us a small Philco radio that we had to share. We were teenagers then and on that Christmas night we stayed up late listening to whatever channels we could get. That late at night in the early 60's you could get about two stations - one station was WSM out of Nashville and the other was WLS broadcast from Chicago, Illinois .
     WSM was a country and western station.  That was fine for Mom and Dad but this was the era of Elvis and the Beattles. WLS played rock and roll and bragged about their 50,000 watt broadcast antenna that at night was aimed into the south  (years later when driving late at night WLS was the only channel to come in clear). We baby sat our siblings that New Years Eve and after the young ones went to bed we listened to the radio after the TV channels went off air.
     I find it somewhat strange that back then I could care less about country music and today that is about all Linda and I listen to.
    


     Writing about Mt. Juliet brought to mind when Linda and I bought a house out by Cedar Creek Boat Dock.
     Prior to moving to Cedar Creek,  Linda and I had lived in the suburbs of Nashville specifically Hermitage Hills and Inglewood and we worked in downtown Nashville.  The noise was constant -barking dogs, speeding cars, sirens and screaming kids.
     The house we bought was in a small development of maybe 15 homes with either lakefront property or lakefront views.   We had a lakefront view if you stood on the front porch on your toes.   It was our first new home and it was close to the lake where we kept our boat.
     As we were moving in Mom and Dad came by to see the place. Dad and I stepped out the back door and were talking as the sun started to set when I suddenly told him to be quiet and listen.  Dad intently listened turning his head from side to side straining his hearing for the familiar sounds he would hear around his home in the suburbs.  After a few moments Dad said, " I don't hear anything."
     In fact there were all kinds of sounds - a whippoorwill in the woods behind the house, bullfrogs down by the lake, an owl in the woods across the road, and crickets in the bushes around the house.
      After Dad said he didn't hear anything I looked at him and said, " yeah , quiet isn't it? "


     One night while watching a movie on the mess deck of the USS Alamo as we laid a couple of miles off the shores of Vietnam, the klaxon calling us to general quarters went off.  The ship went into action as the sailors quickly manned their battle stations and the ship itself sped  up  and maneuvered erratically.  We had been attacked .  There had been an explosion on the bridge and a man had been wounded .
     Outside, the night was dark and void of any light source and though we were a couple of miles off shore we were surrounded by small Vietnamese sampans ( fishing boats ) .
     Word quickly spread that a hand grenade had been tossed on the bridge and exploded on the deck outside the Chiefs quarters and a helmsman had been wounded. Obviously a Vietnamese fisherman had tossed the grenade from his boat, but which sampan and which fisherman did the dirty deed?  We remained at general quarters for a couple of hours before we called it a night and went to sleep.
     The next day we found out that someone figured out that a Vietnamese fisherman was too small to toss a hand grenade some 80 feet up in the air and another 30 feet or so over from his boat to the bridge.  The Vietnamese are small people.  Well, if we were not attacked by the enemy then there was a joker among us.  It didn't take long for the investigation to lead to a Marine private who was pissed off with his Gunny Sargent  who happened to be playing cards with the Navy Chiefs in their quarters.
     We all had heard stories about officers who were killed or wounded by hand grenades tossed into their tents by one of their men but we never knew the stories to be true until that night.   I wonder if that private ever got out of the brig ?