The best apples

When I announced that I was going to retire, and return to my childhood hometown, people advised me that “you can’t go home again.” I responded that I knew exactly where I was going and that some things do not change: “home” is about 20 miles south of the apples and the same distance north of the peaches.
That made no sense to most of them, because they have never had these fruits right off the trees. It does matter where one obtains fresh fruits and vegetables, not to mention bread and pizza . . .
Every autumn during the 80s, Fran and I would come from Virginia to join my brother Bill and wife Mary from California to visit with Aunt Mildred on Rippy Hill. During one of our forays into the countryside we stopped at an apple orchard to get some “eating apples.” They were so good that we went back to Rome Lyda’s (a few miles east of I-26 on US 64) to get some more apples to take home with us.
Mildred Lyda met us again, polishing an apple on her skirt for each of us to munch on while we looked around. I selected a basket of Goldens, and Mrs. Lyda emptied the basket into a plastic bag in order to save the basket to use again. I assisted her in getting the bag separated in the dispenser and tried to hold it open for the transfer.
When we finally got all of the apples into the bag, she remarked as she handed it to me that she would have had it done a lot sooner if I had not been “helping!” Bill joined in the laughter, and asked if he could get his apples in a box to go on the airplane with his luggage. No problem; he wisely did not try to help.
When he pulled out a twenty to pay, Mrs. Lyda shot a look at Mary, and asked her if she knew Bill had this Big Money? As we headed for the car with our burdens, Mrs. Lyda thanked us for helping to keep the Lyda family warm in the winter.
The next year Mrs. Lyda greeted us with the free samples, and she gave me mine last: it was the smallest, most shriveled little apple I have ever seen. After good laughs all around, she then gave me the beautiful Golden Delicious she had been polishing for me.
We have bought our apples from Mildred Lyda for more than 15 years now. This year I bought a few at a more convenient location, and that was a mistake I will not make again. I made two special trips out there to get good eating apples from my favorite growers. Mildred was at a funeral the first time, but her daughter got me a bag picked for eating. This last visit was on a cold morning during the week, but Rome came out to see that I got one more bag of delicious Goldens.
Does anyone like those very red Delicious apples with the thick skins and tasteless mush inside that lie in splendor in the produce bins at the supermarkets? I just read where the growers in Washington state are changing varieties nowadays as their trees mature. They admit that they ruined a good apple by breeding to supermarket specifications and what the public supposedly wants. The Granny Smith made large inroads into the market because it is a good apple for cooking and eating.
The same goes for the tough-skinned tomatoes picked green by machines and turned red by exposure to gas in the packing line. They do not compare to a vine-ripened tomato picked at the right time and eaten the same day. We have done this to ourselves by insisting on appearance and year-round availability as primary criteria for purchase.
Does anyone want to drink apple juice from Red China instead of Hendersonville? Apples are lying on the ground under the trees because the juice market collapsed again right at harvest time. I have not forgotten the Korean War, so I do not want to buy anything that was made in Red China. Is it worth losing our Henderson County orchards to sell American soft drinks and hamburgers in Red China?

Remembering John Griffin

John was my neighbor in Holly Hill when I built my house there. He walked by regularly with Bonnie, a beautiful Springer spaniel, who was always impatient to get on with it. She was such a fine looking dog that I could not resist offering my hand to pet her. Sometimes she would allow a pat on the head, but she usually jumped back with a little warning bark. John said resignedly that "She hates everybody," including him and his wife, Florence.
John served in the Army Engineers in the South Pacific during WWII, and wrote many letters home to his fiancee, Florence. A budding artist, John drew a little picture on the outside of each envelope, and Florence saved all of them. When the drawings were featured on a Public Television broadcast, John asked me to tape the segment for him, which I was glad to do. When I delivered the tape to his house, he gave me a lithographed copy of one of his paintings. Of course I framed it, and it hangs above the head of our bed now.
Some of John’s paintings may also be found in St. Luke’s Hospital, and he regularly supplied paintings, two for each season, for the NC Welcome Center on I-26 near Columbus. Some were scenes, others were abstract. But always well executed, with exciting use of color.
John also enjoyed carving decoy ducks. His paintings and his decoys are available at his daughter’s Dish Barn near Hendersonville. I was always going over to see John in his studio and workshop, but never did make time to do so. That appears to be a common failing, as my friend Don Pattie wrote about that in one of his many poems. There are six stanzas, but I will quote only the last two in my limited space:
It’s natural to procrastinate,
Yet the moral here is clear.
We need to set aside more time
For those we hold so dear.

In life and dreams I lost my friend
For it seemed I had no time.
We take for granted those we love,
Then weep for Auld Lang Syne.*

Of course it is good to call or write or exchange e-mails, but they are not as good for the souls as a visit. When we go in person we can share a hug, warm smiles, perhaps some laughter. Yes, you have read of this idea before in my columns, but I have to advise that you do as I write, not as I do. This is not a contest, but when we do as I suggest, everyone involved wins. Let’s resolve to make more time for our friends as well as our families. The rewards are both immediate and lasting.
*From "A Lost Dream," (c)1994 by D. A. Pattie. Used by permission.

Bob Witty: An Appreciation

When I began to appreciate Bob Witty’s inspired writing for the Bulletin I had no idea that I might one day become a colleague. When I did, Bob was one of the first people to welcome me to the ranks of creative writers. We quickly formed our little mutual admiration society, but I am mindful that he was the senior member in every way.
I have felt very keenly the loss of his manifold contributions to local lore, found first on these pages and later more permanently enshrined in his books.
Bob abandoned his typewriter and blue pencil for a half century to go fly airplanes in WWII and later establish himself in the business world. It is our good fortune that in casting about for "something to do" in retirement, he "inquired within" at the Bulletin office and was invited to contribute something.
Something became several hundred columns filled with his insightful tributes to the people "From Here" and "From Away" who populate "Our Area" to make it the special place it certainly is.
The above "Witty-cisms" were a small part of what made Bob’s writing sparkle and lifted it above the ordinary. We talked about how we drove our computers’ spell checkers crazy with words we created for their effect, and the effect they had on our editors. For reasons completely unknown to us, they wanted to be editors, and do what editors do, to make our writing readable.
In all things that Bob and I had in common, he was the real thing and I am the wannabe. To say that he flew airplanes in WWII is an understatement, for the plane he flew most had a reputation for eliminating pilots who failed to master it right away. The Martin B-26 "Marauder" had two very powerful engines and relatively short, small wings. The pilot had to maintain control of the beast at all times, for if lost, control likely could not be regained. As a group commander, Bob flew the lead airplane on combat missions that earned him some prestigious medals for valor.
I would have loved to be a part of "The Helmet and Goggles and Scarf Escadrille – Frost Flight" that Bob formed with 28 local military pilots that included and honored Col. Norme Frost, the only one of them who flew and fought in both WWI and WWII. But alas, I am only a civilian pilot with a few hundred hours in what they call "puddle jumpers."
Bob seemed to relish becoming an octogenarian. Instead of cutting back, he continued to promote the Octogenarian Golf Tournament and to play in it, and to follow his other pursuits that got him into the Second Wind Hall of Fame (it was Bob who initiated the paper work to induct me into Second Wind). I read with only mild interest Bob’s take on becoming 80 years old in 1995, but now that I am almost there, a second reading resonates.
As a Korean War veteran (Air Force), I always appreciated Bob’s "Military Chronicles" that are almost as numerous as his now-famous "Foothills Chronicles." Without them I would not have realized how many of my fellow inhabitants had served, and in what significant ways. Bob wrote with an understanding and empathy as only a fellow veteran can — been there, done that, if you will. For many of these largely unsung heroes, he sang their song. We can all be grateful for that.
Bob was a practicing Friend (we called them Quakers when I was a kid), which colored his perceptions of our world and its people.
I don’t know how he adapted his nonviolent nature to wage a war of necessity, but he did.
Also in character, he never wrote ill of anyone, but brought out the virtues of the many people he memorialized in his thoughtful Chronicles.
Rest in peace, friend.

Remembering Charles, John and Don

Three more men that I knew and liked have now left this life. Not close friends, but people I valued and was always glad to see. We know a lot of people like that, don’t we? People who have contributed to a better life for our community, but who joined us along our path of life only recently, and not often enough. I think of them as friends anyway.
When I needed footings dug for an addition to our little house (we were downsizing, but found that we could not, so we decided to add three rooms!) I asked friend Delbert Case to recommend someone else since he had gone out of that business. The backhoe is the tool of choice for footings, but is also the weapon of choice for demolishing buildings, so I sought someone who might do the one without doing the other. Delbert recommended Charles Halford, who brought another friend, Bill Burnette, to help when he came to dig and to take out some trees.
All went well and I had nice trenches that required little dressing by hand to be ready for the concrete, and a maple whose branches had rubbed the roof was gone, as were many overgrown shrubs in the path of the addition. Soon friend and neighbor Joe Waldrop said, "I see you had Crash Halford working at your house the other day." Well, now, I might have asked for a second opinion, or called some other people, if Delbert had called him Crash!
Of course, I had to ask how Charles got that nickname, and was told that he earned it by tearing up so many machines when he was in the Army. Some of his friends insisted that his destructive habits continued in civilian life, so the name stuck, but it looked to me like he had mastered his craft by the time he came to my house. He moved several shrubs by scooping them up with the backhoe, and they are thriving where we set them out again. I shall always remember the wide grin framed by his big round cheeks and twinkling eyes as he worked. Sorta reminded me of Santa Clause, up on that big toy of his…
If you have central heat/air in your house built here in the last half century or so, chances are good that John McGuinn had a hand in putting it there. He had his own business for many years, but was working with Harold Burrell when I built my dream house on Holly Hill. Harold asked whether I wanted a Cadillac system, or a Mercedes, and John grinned broadly when I suggested that they price the Mercedes first… That big house was cool at the same cost for electricity as my house next door less than half as large.
When I wrote about the big Bradley house off Skyuka Road at the foot of Tryon Peak, I called John to ask whether it was air conditioned. I left for the Air Force before the house was completed, so I did not know. John said no, but he added window units in the bedrooms later. So John’s whole life was devoted to making people comfortable. Not a bad legacy, it seems to me.
Don and Mary Sasser entered our social calendar shortly after we retired here. She later became a customer at Fran and Mary’s yarn shop, and she also cut my toenails for me when I was laid up after my heart surgery. We talked about their daughter who got her pilot’s license and began flying in Alaska, and other common interests. You know, what friends do when they get together.
Then one day Don told me calmly that he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s… no sugar coating and no self pity, just acceptance. Don would stand by and just watch while Mary and I hugged, then he and I would talk quietly while the women visited. He did not just do yes and no, but offered thoughts and ideas of his own, which kept me from feeling that I was just doing my duty by "entertaining" him. What I am trying to say is that Don handled with grace and aplomb what could have been a more difficult circumstance for everyone. I salute him for that.
To you who knew these men better than I, may you accept my small tribute to their big presence in our community, as together we share our loss while cherishing their memory.

A ‘filling station’ to cherish

I have relished the sight of the little gas station at the foot of McClure Hill for some time now, and was pleased to see it restored to its former glory. When I learned that my friend Mack Henson was responsible, I asked him to meet me there so I could learn more about it directly from him. As always, I learned more than I expected to.
The "Filling Station" was built c.1914 and operated for many years by Mack’s grandfather, Sherman S. McClure. He was known as "S.S." and probably named the station "Silver Springs" because of his initials. Speaking of names, since "Jervey Curve" up near Melrose on US176 is called that because Dr. Allen Jervey’s daughter lost her life when a car full of young people went off the road and down into the rocky Pacolet River bed below, I wondered if that hill memorialized a similarly unfortunate McClure. Not so; it got its name because S.S. owned property on both sides of the present US 176 from the state line almost to the top of the hill.
The enclosed part of the building is original, but Mack replaced the canopy that extends to the original brick pillars because he thought it posed a danger to anyone walking under it. As the restoration proceeded, Roy Williams helped him find some of the artifacts that had disappeared, including the tall gasoline pump with the handle on the side. Roy also provided the light fixture that illuminates the big oval Esso sign on the post that is taller than the building.
The sign is oval because that was the shape of the gasoline tank on the semi-trailers that delivered gasoline to all the little Esso "filling stations." The trailers had the blue border and red "Esso" lettering on the back end of the tank. They also had a steel chain dragging at the back to discharge static electricity because the rubber tires insulated the truck from the ground. Nowadays, there is no chain; they clip a ground wire from the truck to the metal of the underground tank before draining gasoline into it.
The last year of my father’s life saw him taking this seven-year-old to the Filling Station with him on Saturday mornings. The owner became a friend, and he would cheerfully work the handle to pump maybe ten gallons of gasoline up into the glass tank, then put the hose nozzle into the filler neck of our car, and squeeze the handle to let the gasoline run into our tank by gravity. Then he would wash the windshield, check the oil and water levels, and even the tire pressures because the porous rubber "inner tubes" would lose several pounds of air pressure in a week. Sometimes he would put the car on the lift to change the oil or lubricate the chassis, and we’d have time for more visiting. I think the gasoline cost Dad about twenty cents a gallon then; imagine the station owner doing all that work for a lot less than a dollar in profit!
Many stations did not have a lift or even a pit for changing oil or lubrication. Instead, there would be a couple of wooden "piers," well supported and braced, spaced to accept the wheels of a car to drive out over sloping ground to allow room underneath for a man to work on the car’s underside. I missed seeing any of these means at the present Silver Springs station.
There is, however, a tank with a cranked pump on top for dispensing kerosene into the customer’s can. It is outside, because the smell of kerosene permeates the whole inside of a building. There is also a quart bottle with a metal spout screwed on it for adding a quart of oil to a car engine from a bulk oil tank similar to the one for kerosene.
There is a rubber container for battery water, with a well for keeping the "baster" used for transferring the distilled water to the battery cells. Rubber because if the cell were overfilled, water would be drawn back out of the battery, and since it would then contain battery acid, it would not eat a hole in the rubber container.
Someone brought Mack a Mileage device from Silver Springs, Florida, which now sits prominently on the counter. The die cast metal case has a lot of raised lettering on it lauding Silver Springs and local attractions, and has slots through which to view the drum inside which gives place names, miles from Silver Springs, and the routes to take to get there. Map-Quest without a computer — or even electricity!
Mack’s presence at the station brought several visitors. Roy Williams seemed to be as pleased with the little Filling Station as Mack is.
There is no telling what else Roy might contribute to bring it further to life. The pump had lost its prime, so I will have to go back down there soon and pump, not stale gasoline, but dyed cooking oil up and get some more pictures. Do you think maybe somebody else likes that place as much as Mack and Roy do?

Remembering Virginia and Van

Virginia Gantt was a latecomer to my late Aunt Mildred Rippy’s circle of friends we called "the Girls," who had breakfast together at Hardees every Tuesday morning for several decades. Mary Trucks, Aunt Mildred’s friend since their childhood, brought Virginia and she brought Ruth Wallace sometime after Fran and I joined the group. Virginia spent her last days at White Oak in Tryon; Ruth is still living there, and is sharp of mind and in remarkably good health at 99 years of age.

Virginia was the widow of James Gantt, who headed up Tryon High School when my younger brother Bill continued there after I graduated in 1947. I never knew Mr. Gantt, but Bill and his accomplice, er, I mean friend, became well acquainted with Mr. Gantt during numerous visits to his office. They always promised to do better, but I suppose their preference for outdoor activities soon took them out of the un-air conditioned classrooms of the day.

I cannot count the number of people who have mentioned to me that Virginia was their piano teacher. Just last week Shirley Edwards was telling me that if Virginia played a new piece for her, she picked it up by ear, and thus did not learn to really read musical scores until she was in high school: Virginia stopped playing the pieces for her when assigned.

Virginia always came to breakfast well-dressed and coifed to perfection, a Southern lady all the way. She spoke proper English in well-modulated tones, except when she would comment that the real butter in the cookies made them "more better," hers eyes twinkling as she enjoyed her mischievous observation. Attractively slim until the end, she watched her diet too carefully, some of us thought. She usually resisted the sweets some of the ladies brought, but would sometimes taste "just one little one," I suppose to be "polite."

When I started writing these columns, Mary Trucks commented one day that she was clipping them and putting them in a scrapbook. Virginia piped up, "I’m not. I’ll just wait for the book to come out." So naturally I gave Virginia her copy of "A Boy in the Amen Corner," dedicated to "The Girls," first!

We later comers to the group decided to continue to meet after the original five "Girls" passed away and Hardees closed. The Girls started something good and therefore have left a permanent legacy.

One Bernard A. Van Vlaenderen saw the signs we put up in Columbus and appeared at one of our Lions meetings, rarin’ to go! He had been an active Lion in California, and we put him to work right away. As Lion Secretary, I had to learn to spell his name, but for everyone else he was just "Van." He and Ellen soon had the whole Lion crew over to their home for a meeting, where we dined well and visited a basement workshop overflowing with his wood creations.

Van was an artist in wood who had mastered the jig saw in producing his works in tarsia (or intarsia, wherein pieces of different colored wood are inlaid on a backing to form a picture or geometric pattern). His horses and foxes were especially delightful as they sprang to life in his skilled hands. Of course Ellen was the love of his life, but I cannot say whether it was tarsia or singing with Community Chorus and his church choir that was second. But Van certainly had the soul of an artist, and made a host of friends in Our Area, who miss his smiling countenance wherever good fellowship prevails.

Reader response to recent columns

Reader response to some recent columns has been interesting, and I want to share some of their comments with you. Writers always wonder whether they are being read, and what their readers think, so please keep those cards and letters coming, folks!
Actually, it is mostly e-mails and personal contacts, but I would like to see more people respond to the Bulletin’s web page "blogs" at http://www.tryondailybulletin.com/blogs/.

My teacher friends identified with "That Carlann woman." The last paragraph was meant as a tribute to all the good teachers everywhere who are making a difference in so many young lives. I wish now that I had named them, but I wanted to get the column in the paper while it was timely. It is always better to let columns steep for a while because I often think of better ways to express things. It would have been good to say that this column is also for Uncle Mitch, Nancy, Bunny, Cindy, Janice and Dixie . . . not to mention my own teachers, all of whom I can name.

Carlann’s daughter Satasha put her comment on the Bulletin’s blog. Since many of you do not "do" the Internet, I quote her: "I am proud to see that others think That Carlann Woman is as wonderful as I [do]. As her daughter, I am perhaps the luckiest student of all. I was about 10 when she enrolled in Gardner-Webb. I went to class with her, tried to do my homework in the back of the room, quizzed her for tests on the way to Boiling Springs, and sometimes participated in class discussions. I am still realizing some of the lessons I learned from those years. I would have loved to have had a fourth grade teacher like that, but I got one better: I have That Carlann Woman as a life teacher!"

The comments about the WPA column were also interesting and varied. Bill Wuehrmann checked in with this: "I'm old enough to know, first hand, about WPA and CCC (my brother-in-law signed up) and I have one remaining vestige of the great work of WPA: An outhouse! Fay and I own a church (1855) in rural Wisconsin, but that's another story in itself that's too long to tell here. Anyway, it still has its WPA outhouse out back."

Helen Trevathan e-mailed this: "Really enjoyed reading this column. Chuck said his family probably wouldn't have made it thru without the WPA!" I am sure Chuck speaks for many who lived during the Great Depression.

In the small world category, Carlann Scherping sent this note: "That [WPA column] was fun to read. Martha and Allen [Ashley] are friends of mine. Martha and I did our graduate degrees at Gardner Webb together and, of course, we taught together at Saluda." And Madelyn Dedmondt Meyer (daughter of weatherman Robert) e-mailed from Brevard, "It's truly amazing what wonderful history you uncover in your endeavors. I never knew a home & spring-fed swimming pool was hiding in Saluda. It sounds like a treasure."

Friend Leroy Clarke, who grew up in Texas, but retired to New Mexico, e-mailed "It [WPA] was an amazing program, poor rural NM had its share of WPA projects too. We see lots of the work around here. I guess everyone over 60 still thinks of WPA and meaning "We Piddle Around". Silly that such a program had to live with that, as lots of folks were fed. (Being a Gov't program, there was, no doubt, lots of ‘piddle’)." However, friend Bob Isenhart, from the Midwest, sent this comment, "From the fine reporting in your article, it appears that the interpretation of ‘W-P-A’ being, ‘We Polk Along’ was entirely improper!" I think he meant "poke," as in "slowpoke," but he was probably playing with the name of our county.

The historians tell us that it was WWII, not the WPA, that finally brought us out of the Great Depression. Be that as it may, we still have the enduring rockwork, some buildings, and the wonderful Blue Ridge Parkway to enjoy. Pretty good legacy, I say.