Memory Lane

    My Mother was a collector. Not that the collected items would bring much money on the antique market. She did not have an original Babe Ruth baseball card, but she did tend to keep mementoes from her children's beginnings.

   She had all of my grade school report cards, the ones that had my teachers names and the grades of each of the areas of study as well as deportment grades. They are not to be shown in this space for obvious reasons.

   One small collection that brought back memories from a bunch of years back was a small stack of poorly written postcards from camp by her oldest son. 

   Yours truly...

   As near as I can figure, it was 1948. The summer after my 6th grade year at Sunnyside School. A good time to be alive. It was my first camp experience.

   The elementary cursive on the hastily written postcard stock told of a boy, away from home for two weeks, who had a problem with his family's response to his plight. I can remember it to this day. For a solid week this preteen had faithfully written home every day, but, even as others in his cabin received letters and cards at mail call, his name was not called.

   Now, lest you be upset at his parents for not writing in his time of need, they were due to visit him on that weekend between the two camp weeks. And they showed up as expected.

   The man-child was not happy, and his parents asked about his mood. When he explained about their supposed lack of concern, they were quick to apologize and promise to do better the second week. 

   Which they did.

   And peace was restored.

   Now that was not such a big deal. Seems like the parent's week had sped by busily, and they knew they would see him on the weekend. After all he was only 30 miles up the road, and camp was fun, wasn't it?

   A small item in one's life, right?

   Looking back on it from 2021, it was, but evidently not to a 12 year old.

   Those old cards did bring back a lot of memories and Carolyn and I decided to check out the YMCA camp on Lake Ocoee. It was Monday and our only chore was to make our weekly visit to Publix, so we went on north and east.

   The first landmark of the camp, Sugarloaf "Mtn", comes into sight as we drive the back roads of Polk County off US  Highway 64 out of Cleveland toward North Carolina. I have climbed it several times since those camp days, and it hardly fits the description of Mountain. Hill maybe, but not much larger.

   Camp Ocoee was begun back in 1923 and will celebrate 100 years in the camping business in 2023.

   So it has been 70+ years since I took that first icy plunge off the dock and into Lake Ocoee. Technically this is Parksville Reservoir, a lake created by the construction of a dam on the Ocoee River. Ocoee Dam No. 1 was opened in 1911 by the Tennessee Valley Authority.

   So much had changed since I had last visited the camp property back in 1958. This was at a weekend reunion of the adults and kids of families who had participated in Family Camp, a time when families rented cabins, ate their meals together in the dining hall, played sports, swam, and socialized together under the auspices of the Y. I can remember that year's reunion in 1958 because it was the weekend of the University of Chattanooga Mocs vs Tennessee Volunteers football game in Knoxville. The Mocs were usually cannon fodder for the Vols, but not in 1958, when the Vols were upset on their home field 14-6. Yours truly was a senior at UT at the time, and took much heat from the Chattanooga citizens.

   Jump ahead to 2021. The dining hall, home to many happy memories, great meals, slew (slough) juice, songs and skits. Just families enjoying each other's company for a couple of weeks.

   All that was left of the old dining hall. A new one replaced it on a lake plot south of the original camp. That old dining hall bell called us to many happy times. As a hungry boy its call had much appeal.

   The main road from the dining hall down to the lake front was lined with cabins. Originally the cabins were small, but the later ones had room for more campers and staff.

   The field where the camp offices were built was our softball field. You are looking from the home plate area toward left field. A strong hitter could propel the ball out of the field and up onto the side of the hill into the woods that sloped down to the playing area. Many a game was played here, both in the days when cabins played each other and at a later time for me when the adults joined in. With enough teenagers in Family Camp it would be the adults versus the young people. Mostly we won.

   Y camp was not all fun and games. There was a serious aspect. It was a Christian Camp, with vespers each evening, and church on Sunday at both the kids camp and the Family Camp.

   An aside: the families who came to the Family Camp were members of several churches in the Chattanooga area. Not only members, but lay leaders both in church, its denomination, and in the civic and business life of Chattanooga. We kids enjoyed and learned from men and women who took their Christianity seriously.

   One memory stands out in my mind, probably because it was out of my 12 year old's comfort zone growing up. There were no bathroom facilities in the cabins, so we trudged through the woods to what I remember as being a 4-hole outhouse. It was the first experience of this shy lad sitting in a latrine with 3 others. A bit uncomfortable at first, but commonplace after a few days or weeks. (Sorry, no picture. This structure was long gone.)

   Carolyn and I were fortunate that then camp director, B.J. Davis was in the office when we arrived, and he spent several minutes giving us the history of the camp before turning us loose to explore on our own. 

   It is fun to look back, and surprising too, when things that you had not thought of for years (maybe 70 or so), come rattling out of your subconscious.

   I'm happy I got the chance to relive so many happy times, and the chance to actually walk the same paths of long ago.

   It was, and is, a great place to be.

Baskets at Easter Time

    Before the time that this little boy knew anything about the real Easter story of tombs and resurrection, the big thing was an Easter basket, filled with colored eggs and perhaps some goodies. 

   Today this basket sits on a piece of furniture in a house that knew not this child. It is not filled with bright colors and chocolate, but holds a picture of a teenager in a uniform, and an old belt. My Mom and Dad (in the picture to the left) would be happy it is still used and on display.

   But the basket brings back memories of Easter on Tunnel Boulevard, where, even in the Great Depression and the beginnings of WWII, surprises and laughter filled the house and yard.

   Notice the basket in the pictures below..

   This child is looking for hidden eggs in a flower garden, If my memory serves me well, this small colorful garden sat next to a fence between 207 and 209 where the Mansfield family lived. Mr. Mansfield must have passed away, because the family last name changed to Perkins later. 

   This boy holds the same basket with eggs as he stands in the snow on a cold Easter Sunday. There is a story here, a story with all the elements of a regular Easter, but with the hazardous condition that the eggs cannot be hidden in the snow. Two reason emerge for this hazard:

      1. The snow is deep and the eggs once released from the basket sink to the bottom and out of sight.

      2. The footsteps of the hiding person lead to the spot every time.

   Where is all the suspense and fun in that?

   So we come to a logical conclusion, hide the eggs in the house.

   The eggs are counted, then hidden inside 207, then found with happiness.

   But there is one missing. No one can remember where the hiding place was. One egg is lost in the house. 

   A couple of weeks later a strange pungent odor is noticed. It smells of sulphur. Noses lead to a small table with a closed lid.

   There is the missing egg in all its glorious smell.

   That Easter was the last one where eggs were hidden in the house.

   That Easter basket has seen a lot of years. It has resided in several houses in several states. It has been used for a lot of different things and held by several tiny hands. 

   Today it holds memories of the past.

   It is also empty, just like the Easter tomb, but if you listen closely you can hear the Hope of the ages.

   CHRIST IS RISEN

   HE IS RISEN INDEED

   Amen and Amen

   

Overcoming Fear

    Okay, so maybe fear is too scary a word to use here. Let's just say an uncomfortable spot to put yourself into.

   Following in the wake of the first post on "207 Tunnel Blvd.", I screwed up my courage and knocked on the door of 207. Carolyn was there for support, albeit from the sidewalk at the bottom of the front steps. 

   I could hear dogs barking inside, Through a window in the front room (sun room back in the day) I could make out two canines, both large looking out of the raised window on the left. As I rapped on the front door (after trying the bell), both continued barking, now looking through the glass portion of the front door. 

   It looked as though no one was home at this 3pm hour of the afternoon.

   Retreating to the front yard, I took a few shots of that area with its huge oak tree near the house. There will be a separate post about this tree later.

   Walking down to the south edge of the front area so that I could take a picture of the garage (the subject of a more detailed blog post later also), I spotted a car in the back of the house. 

   Thinking someone may be home, just not wanting to face a strange man with a camera on a tripod standing on the porch. We were walking toward the garage when a lady appeared coming from the back of the house. 

   Debbie, on the left, talking with Carolyn on the now remodeled badminton court.

   Immediately, I launched into my spiel about growing up in that house before she could tell me to get out of her yard. She listened politely then welcomed us to look around. She asked about my family and I, and what life was like back in the 40s. She really wanted me to tell her about our lives.

   Debbie was a nurse, half of a two-person, family that had lived in 207 for about 10 years. She and her   friend were not from Chattanooga, or even Tennessee, but from the North. 

   Shannon, an artist with her studio in my old bedroom, arrived home about that time, and the four of us had a good conversation about the property, the dogs, and some cats, the neighbors then and now, and how different the whole yard area looked today from what I had described from my childhood.

   Shannon showed us the dollhouse she was finishing right where the badminton court used to be behind the garage. There was color everywhere in the yard. 

     Shannon is in the dollhouse facing toward the camera. 

From the thought of just taking a few shots and getting out of there, Carolyn and I spent an hour looking at what the ladies had done and explaining about life in the late Depression and World War II eras. We enjoyed our visit a lot, and I believe they did also.

   This proved to be a great start to our investigating the surroundings of my childhood. If everyone that we visit on this nostalgic journey turns out to be as welcoming as these two, we have many good adventures in store.

   As we leave the old homestead, where the brave settlers lived while cowboys and Indians roamed the neighborhood, I consider an old retaining wall, crafted by earlier people, which flanked the north side of the court. The shouts and laughter, the sounds of shuttlecock meeting racket, are still to be found if you listen hard enough.

   Stay tuned...

   

Let's Start at the Beginning

    There is a line from The Sound of Music:

      "Let's start at the very beginning,

       A very good place to start."

   

   207 Tunnel Blvd. Chattanooga, Tennessee

   Telephone 2-3348, then MAdison2-3348 or MA2-3348 or 622-3348, a party line for a little bit, then a straight line. A two-party line I think, and an adventure in itself.

   This house was built in 1931. Nana and Papa were married in 1931, and bought the house in 1934. Just for comparison's sake, the down payment was $1200 and the monthly payments on the loan were $24 a month. 

   I have my parent's budgets for the years 1932 through 1945, meticulously kept by Nana down the the last penny. 

   Nana's expenditures for 1932 totaled $1868.40. Her grocery bill was $245.50 which would be about 2 weeks for Carolyn and I right now.

   The above shot showed my Mom on the front porch with the dog, which I don't remember at all.

   In May of 1936, their first child was born.

   My Dad holding yours truly at 9 weeks.

   My brother David would be born in 1939 and my youngest brother Bill in 1946.

   But this blog will feature my memories about life and growing up, from my 84 year old memory, which can be suspect at times. These particular memories will not be in any particular order chronologically, just as they fall out of my brain.

   As I was looking at old photos, most taken by my Mom, one particular memory jumped out at me. 

   These concrete steps, leading up to the front door, were the focus of many hours of play by a youngster who loved all kinds of sports. Like many others, baseball, became a major fascination, and, lacking a field nearby, and neighbor's kids who were, for the most part female, these steps became my playing field for many games of solo participation.

   The needed accessories were few. An old tennis ball and a baseball glove were all it took to make the game come alive. 

   It unfolded like this:

   The human player took the roles of the defensive team in the field and the steps became the batters. The field of play included the sidewalk to the street in front of the house and all the surrounding territory that a ball thrown against the steps might venture into.

   The pitch was the key. The pitcher, standing on the sidewalk, threw the ball against the steps. Where the ball collided against the concrete determined how the batter hit the pitch. Sometimes it would be fouled back onto the front porch, sometimes a line drive, or a pop up or a ground ball. The pitcher then became a fielder and had to make a play on the ball, either to catch it in the air, or to field it on the ground then throw (again against the steps) to a baseman to get the out. There were no strikeouts or walks. Every batter hit the ball somewhere. 

   The action:

      The pitcher throws.

      The batter hits.

      The fielder catches.

      The fielder throws to a base to get a runner.

      Next batter.....

   Innings were played, score was kept, and a game completed by the one-man team on the sidewalk.

   The field was always ready for play, anytime, and, as long as the pitcher's arm held out, the games could go on, and on, and on.......

   Refreshments were ready in the fridge when hunger or thirst called.

   There is no telling how many hours were spent in play right there.

   And, when at last darkness obscured the flight of the ball, the glove was hung up, a chair pulled up to the edge of the porch, the radio turned on, and the play-by-play of a Chattanooga Lookout's game filled the air with the exploits of real players.

   It was a great time to be alive.

A Nostalgic Tour of Sorts

    Driving home from church the other day, Carolyn and I took a quick jaunt down Tunnel Blvd. , to the neighborhood of my youth. 

   A little backstory on why: 

   Carolyn and I both were born here in Chattanooga in 1936, but our paths never crossed until the early 80s when our families both attended Brainerd Baptist Church. 

   She lived in East Ridge, then near Lovell Field, the Chattanooga airport, then off Lee Highway near the Tennessee Baptist Children's Home, then off Bonny Oaks Drive near Oakwood Baptist Church where she attended after her marriage. She attended Tyner High School.

   On the other hand, I spent my early years on Tunnel Blvd., a couple of blocks from Brainerd Road, then out in the "country" on Hickory Valley Rd. in East Brainerd. I went to McCallie for my high school years.

   Interesting to me is the fact that all of this growing up time took place east of Missionary Ridge in the Brainerd Section of the city, but we never met. We could have possibly been in a lot of the same places, maybe even at the same time, but never knew it.

   As an aside, when Mayre and I moved back to Chattanooga from Knoxville in the early 60s, we lived in Lakeshore Estates, which is less than a mile as the crow flies from the property she and Bruce owned in Harrison, and where they built in 1971. 

   After we married in 2019, we have had a lot of time to reminisce, and it has been fun to relive our separate lives.

   

   My plan for this journey into the past is to begin here on Tunnel Blvd., in this house built back in 1931, and share things that come to my mind.

   Come join me in the attempt to remember my early life, the people and places that impacted me, and, in general, how we lived back in that "before TV and plastic" era.

  Stay tuned.

Perhaps a Visitor

    "I need you to look at something".

   A plaintive cry from the kitchen area this morning.

   I was in the living room, reading, when this urgent request came to my ears.

   I looked out the screen porch to the walkway that led to the garden shed. 

   At first look, through the binoculars, I thought I saw some movement. On closer inspection, it appeared to have the same coloring of our resident hawk, and I wondered if we had a baby hawk or a juvenile.

   Or something else!

   Only thing to do was to get dressed and find out.

   Just last summer we had a visit from a coyote. I wondered if some critter had come our way and left a calling card. He or she did just that.

   Someone had enjoyed a good meal, not only that but had to take time to rid his intestines of some previous food. A ham bone that still had a bit of meat on it. The coming sunrise might have scared the animal away.

   It would take a fairly large animal to carry or drag this from somewhere not on our property. 

   But whose bone?

   From whence did it come? 

   And most puzzling of all, what kind of creature did this deed?

   We may never know. The bone is now in the garbage, and tomorrow will be in a landfill somewhere.

   And some visitor will be disappointed that his interrupted meal will not be there waiting for him tonight.

   And all the other four legged beasties will be ragging him/her this evening after arriving from afar in response to an invitation to share a banquet. Several may be disappointed, but the one with the shamefully red face could be a tad angry.

   Such is life.

Walking In History

 

   I remember this site from the many times we flew into, or out of, Lovell Field in Chattanooga. We were low enough on approach, or takeoff, to see a wooded section of land just north and east of the airport. In any season of the year, but especially winter, when the leaves were off the trees, we could trace roads through the forest, and branching off from the main roads were a lot of small and short roadways leading  into the woods. 

   I had fancied being able to walk those roads and see where the little offshoots ended. 

   A short history: Back in 1942, at the beginning of WWII, the federal government purchased 8,000 acres, more or less, and proceeded to put up the VAAP (Volunteer Army Ammunition Plant). The mission of the project was to produce TNT for munitions in the war effort. 

   The explosive material, after manufacture, was stored in bunkers which were scattered over the wooded site. These bunkers were built, covered with earth, and, when the trees sprung up, they would be invisible to any enemy bombers. 

   Of course, the planes of the Axis powers never became a threat, but early in the war, no one really knew how the war years would unfold.

   The plant and the accompanying bunkers were phased out after use in the Korean and Vietnam Wars, the buildings either demolished or left to deteriorate, the bunkers emptied, and the area left fenced off from the general public.

   I won't go into the minutia of historical progress, but the county purchased the land for an industrial park.

   Today it is home to, among other businesses, a Volkswagen assembly plant, and an Amazon Distribution Center.

   The area, called Enterprise South, is also home to a nature park, filled with hiking and biking trails. These paths were constructed using some of the interior roadways of the TNT plant, and containing 100 of these storage bunkers.

   Carolyn and I found these roads and walking trails in the opening days of our courting. We wanted to do things together, but were not too keen on being too public a couple. It was a perfect spot.

   It still is....  

   

   This has become a very popular spot for mountain bikers, hikers, families on a stroll and dog walkers There are separate trails for bikes and hikes so congestion is held in check.

   And, if you care to look and think, there is history everywhere in this nature spot.

   The sound of making things and the voices of workers still whisper on the winds as we walk amidst these relics of a bygone era.

   An area used for the storage of explosives, once filled with the sounds of preparations for war, is quiet in the peace that came after. 

   A great place to remember the past and be grateful to be living in that peace that the war produced.

   And carry that gratitude with us as we use these roads and trails, and look on those remnants of storage, and thank God that we can.