River of Memories: An Appalachian Boyhood

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by David Lee Thompson

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

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Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

INTRODUCTION

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

EPILOGUE

This memoir is dedicated to my mother and father—Jack and Marie Thompson—whose house now stands empty and lonely, its walls containing only faint whispers of what was once alive with laughter and reminiscences on Sunday afternoons. They taught us love, honesty, morality, and compassion for our fellow man, but above all, they taught us the importance of being faithful to God by example of their goodness. I miss what we once shared in our house on Bowen Creek—that is gone—but nothing can erase the river of memories that flood my soul. Those are eternal.

Preface

In June 1999, I retired from teaching. In the fall, while my wife, Janet, was still teaching, I wrote a fifty-four-page booklet entitled Cry Like a Baby. It contained nine stories about my early years on Bowen Creek with my parents, two brothers, and three sisters. Eight copies were comb bound at Office Depot—one for each of my five siblings, one for each of my two sons, and one for myself. I couldn’t afford more. At Christmastime, these copies were given to those mentioned.

Shortly thereafter, I began receiving phone calls, letters, and e-mail from my brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, and from friends of all. Everyone was complimentary, and some wanted their own personal copy—signed. Although I was elated with everyone’s reaction, I still wasn’t satisfied with what I’d done. The autumn of 1999 hadn’t been enough time to have my say.

In January 2001, there was an advertisement in the newspaper about a life-writing class being taught at the Huntington Museum of Art, with John Patrick Grace, Ph.D., of Publishers Place as instructor. Janet said, Here’s your chance to write more. Consequently, I enrolled in the January class and the one in the fall of 2001 as well. Since then, I have added a great deal to the original nine chapters, have written four new chapters, a lengthy introduction, and an epilogue. Now, it’s time to share my work with others.

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to John Patrick Grace, Ph.D., for teaching a class about life writing and for building our self-confidence each time we met.

Thanks to all members of the writing class and writers’ group for their encouragement and constructive criticism, and especially Dr. John Hunt and Marla Brannan for recommending Noah Lukeman’s, The First Five Pages, to help tighten my work.

For my family and friends who instilled within me the desire to have my work published, they have been food for my ego.

The help of Cheryl Kane, Anthony Adkins, and Tawnya Gibson toward perfecting my graphics is much appreciated.

Thanks to my sister-in-law, Linda Hughes, for listening to me read during her recovery from open-heart surgery. Now, her heart is both strong and kind.

I am especially indebted to my wife and best friend, Janet, for all the time she spent alone while I worked to complete this project. I’m thankful, too, for the many times she listened to me read and for her endless hours of editing to help me get the words right. She has unselfishly given of herself in every aspect of my life.

Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace, and gratitude.

—Denis Waitley

INTRODUCTION

When I was a child, experiencing the river at the water’s edge was vastly different from the feeling I got while viewing it from afar. Normally, when I drive by the meandering Guyandotte River or stand near the rim of its lofty banks, all my senses seem to relax, save one—that of sight. But today, I savored anew, the emotions I felt when I was ten. I stopped and took the pathway leading down to the place where the water ripples to shore, entering an entirely different world from the one I left behind. Everything took on a new aura of excitement, and I was instantly in touch with the goodness of nature.

My other four senses awakened, enhancing the one I depend on the most, encircling me with aesthetic beauty. The plants were suddenly more luxuriant than those along the winding road above, taking full advantage of the moist air the river supplies them daily. And, too, from their hearty appearance, they seemed to breathe more easily than their dust-covered and scrawny cousins by the roadside. The surrounding trees—nature’s air conditioners—comforted me with the coolness of their shade. These stately giants stood transfixed, giving testimony to the necessity of water to sustain life.

There in my river-world, I heard a variety of birdsongs—some harsh-sounding, some pleasant, and, unfortunately, some were mournful. All, however, were actively engaged in the fundamentals of survival. I couldn’t see most of them because of the dense foliage on the broadleaf trees—the box elder, maple, elm, sycamore, and others. Did I disturb these musicians by my presence, or did they even care that I was an intruder? Who knows? One who didn’t seem to mind was a Great Blue Heron. After soaring peacefully on a current of air, ten feet or so above the water, his neck folded back, the heron landed gracefully on a sandbar then gave a hoarse, throaty squawk as if to announce his entrance to anything or anyone who might be interested. This gangly wader sauntered cautiously along, slowly lifting one spindly leg then the other, while keeping a sharp eye out for prey in the muddy water. For a short time he stood still as a statue, snatched a frog with his spearlike beak and gulped it down, then continued another stretch as watchman awaiting further nourishment. At his proudest moment, he stood perfectly erect: legs straight, the rest of his body diagonal—almost vertical—tail pointed downward, neck flowing, and his majestic head lifted skyward. His only recourse to making himself taller was to pirouette like a ballet dancer. At one point he ventured into the shallows, to the bend of his bony legs, looking for another victim. I laughed to myself as I observed the way his legs bent in back like that of a dog’s hind legs. Slowly, he worked his way upriver to the Madison Creek tributary, disregarding all the noisy cars with their glass-packed mufflers, screeching tires, and blaring radios. He was accustomed to hearing these sounds, so they didn’t distract him in the least. As he moseyed along, the sun peeked from behind a large cloud, causing the feathers on his back to shine like a new silver dollar. Suddenly, he flapped his Great-Blue-Heron wings, and I wondered if he would take flight. My curiosity was soon satisfied. The heron lifted himself off the ground, gliding to the other side of the narrow tributary, where it merged with the Guyandotte River. Once securely planted on the other side, he began to blend with his natural environment, disappeared from view, and that was the last I saw of him.

Halfway between the heron and me was a large ball trapped in the calm water near the bank, resting against an overturned tree trunk. The ball was white, exhibiting a large blue spot. The white part included thin streaks of red, giving it the appearance of an inflated, bloodshot eyeball. I thought of the Giant Squid’s eye—remembered reading that it has the biggest eyeball of any living creature—measuring about twenty-five centimeters in diameter or nearly the size of a man’s head. Somehow, this eyeball loosed itself, easing downstream toward me, bumping into miscellaneous obstacles along the way. Momentarily, it became lodged inside the V-shape formed by two large rocks, but to my surprise, it managed to escape their hold, too. The eyeball moved farther downstream, approximately the same distance from me that it was upstream only moments before. Again, it maneuvered to the water’s edge, and I could have easily picked it up without even getting my feet wet. I decided, however, to let the river have its plaything. Perhaps the eyeball itself had moved to this final position to keep surveillance on me, the intruder. I wonder.

In the distance, tree limbs rose from the water, the tree’s bulk submerging itself from view. The branches resembled some gnarled creature lifting its arms for help before going down the third time. Farther upstream, other trees had met with the same fate. Each was fastened to the riverbed, to be eaten away by the water’s continual gnawing at their decomposing bodies.

I heard gurgling water passing around a jagged rock about midstream. Near the edge, where the water was less swift, I heard delicate lapping as the stream forced its way north to become a tributary of an even mightier river—the Ohio. This gentle Guyandotte was sleeping peacefully, but I knew that one day heavy rains would engorge it with rushing fury from all its tributaries. Then, the cycle would repeat itself, and the once-peaceful Guyandotte River would flex its muscles, with humans standing defenseless against its power.

I prefer the river, as it was today—even-tempered. I’m not afraid of this river at rest but still know to treat it with respect. I realize what it’s capable of doing if I’m trapped in one of its whirlpools or a current that’s too swift to handle. Because of my respect, I had no fear of walking along its edge, squishing the black mud between my toes. I also ran my foot along one of its cool, moist rocks—one pummeled and smoothed over time. As a child, during the sultry days of summer, I splashed in the Guyandotte’s waters, cooling myself from toe to chin. And, more often than not, I doused what was left of me. Why not? Childhood allowed me the time. After dunking my head and resurfacing, I was almost certain I could smell the cleansing power of moving water with only a hint of aquatic life intermingled. Was this the power of suggestion? At the same time a little water went up my nose, eventually entering my throat. And, instinctively, I licked tainted water from my lips before realizing what I had allowed to infiltrate my mouth. It didn’t hurt me, though; I’d done it many times before, and I’m still here.

The first thing I saw while walking down the pathway to the river was a discarded insulated drink holder. I turned it over with my foot and read the following: This is not the life I ordered. I had to agree. None of us get the perfect life we dream about. Our passions often become altered—not necessarily by our own doing—so we must learn early in life to soften the bad with the good. If I had a choice of changing things, given the opportunity to relive my life, I would probably leave most events as they were, especially my childhood. Yet even those years could stand some reorganization from an experienced hand.

For a time, I perched myself on a flat rock, comparing my life with the Guyandotte River. Just as its tributaries replenish it daily, changing it in some small—sometimes great—degree, so have the day-to-day occurrences of life changed me. Like the river, I go about peacefully on most days, happy with things the way they are. Yet as the river sometimes rages, so do life’s problems overwhelm me now and then—even to the point that I think I can take no more. Then, little by little trouble subsides, and like the river, I am again at peace.

When I think of my childhood, who knows how much I’ve forgotten? Have I allowed events to escape my memory—things I didn’t consider important enough to retain—yet others would view as treasures to hold onto for a lifetime? It disturbs me to think that I have allowed perhaps volumes of information to vanish without writing it down and safeguarding it until the right time arrives for sharing it with others. Now, my only alternative is to collect my remaining memories and strive to assimilate them for others’ benefit, enjoyment, or ridicule.

Some memories stand out more than others, but why? Scientists tell us there’s nothing faster than the speed of light—186,282 miles per second. Could I be wrong in disagreeing with what experts have discovered through experimentation? When I click on my internal VCR and press the imaginary rewind button, my life is scanned in reverse, seemingly faster than the speed of light. Then, moments before I reach the end of the tape, my inner machine comes to an unanticipated halt. I reach an impassable wall—too high to scale and too dense to tunnel through. Does memory begin where we first verbalize thoughts? If this is true, then why can’t I remember my first utterance, first phrase, or first complete sentence? I don’t know the answer.

My earliest images of life are like flashes from a camera. Click. They flicker then vanish: My cousin, Wilma Louise, is spending the night with our Aunt Wilma and Uncle Willie and perishes in a fire that destroys their home; I’m riding in a Ferris wheel beside my cousin, Roberta, and I have on white shoes; Aunt Wilma and Uncle Willie are at our house, and Roberta is sitting on Daddy’s lap; I’m wearing a toy watch Mother bought me in town; Roberta is thrown from a jeep while crossing the bridge in Salt Rock, dies of a broken neck, and I can’t go to the funeral because I have the whooping cough; my cousin, Gene, throws sand in my eyes and throws all of Daddy’s nails away because Mother gives him a bath; I awaken from a bad dream, spending an eternity in the great gulf between my bed and the safety of Mother and Daddy’s; and I’m chasing my brother, Philip, with a hoe, the only time he’s ever scared of me.

Each pause on my internal VCR is like viewing snapshots in an album. They are there to look at, but no amount of staring will ever change them. They are frozen in time. The images belong to me, and I allow no one to alter them. Each is unique, the way I see it. I’m free to embellish them if I want—no one will ever know—but I can’t allow myself to commit such a fraudulent act. So, I’ll leave them alone. Instead, I will concentrate on memories with substance to them, not fleeting images that lack detail for others’ understanding.

If I could do it all again, I would have spent the last moments of each day jotting down the events of my waking hours, important or otherwise, into some sort of diary. Then, when I got older, I could have sorted the insignificant from the meaningful. At least I would have substantiated matter to work with rather than relying on mere glimpses of my past. Yes, knowing what I know now, I would begin very young, scribbling in manuscript—jotting down information as a record for future use. As with other things at so young an age, however, keeping a journal didn’t become part of my logic until it was too late. What can I do about it? Nothing. I’m forced to rely on memory alone if I want to leave part of myself to others.

What is the fallacy, then, in relying on my thoughts to serve as the voice of my experiences? If it’s told to the best of my ability and goes unchallenged by my siblings, other relatives, former neighbors, and friends, is it all right? Then, if I pass the test of accuracy by those who know me, will I pass the test of believability with other readers as well? I hope so.

My primary reason for writing is to share an appreciation of the life I’ve lived—to relate its bond with simplicity. It is not a comparison with the hopelessness of those who’ve suffered the famines of Ethiopia and other third world countries, nor is it to be paralleled with people who endure the hardships of war, homelessness, dysfunctional families, or, say, the power of totalitarianism. It’s nothing like that. Mine has been an existence of love, warm beds, plenty to eat, a roof over my head, patriotism, parents who taught me right from wrong, and being instructed to esteem God above all. I have been blessed, and I hunger to pass on the stories of my life because of it—a medley of events encompassing the random happenings throughout my early life.

Some will ask, Why do you think your stories will be of interest to me? I can’t answer this question, since I don’t know what captivates the individual. On the other hand, many readers will find they can relate with me through self-comparison, hardship, honesty, earthiness, humor, or naiveté. Personalities will harvest my reflections differently, but all who read these writings are guaranteed to glean something from their pages—can relate in some way—be it good memories or bad.

My earliest recollection of the past is December 21, 1947, the date my two-year-old cousin, Wilma Louise, perished in the fire that ravaged Aunt Wilma and Uncle Willie’s house. I turned four on December 1. If I close my eyes, I can picture her in a white casket, wearing a white sweater and an auburn-colored wig. I am powerless, however, to visualize her face. The flames didn’t touch Wilma Louise’s body, but I overheard one adult whispering, The heat cooked the poor little thing’s arms. That’s why she’s wearin’ a sweater. I also heard adults discussing how Aunt Wilma kept Wilma Louise from being ravaged by the flames, snatching her from the bed, then falling from the bedroom window while cradling my cousin in her arms. The wake was at Aunt Gertie’s in Lincoln County. Before taking her there, however, the funeral director drove Wilma Louise’s body to my maternal grandmother’s house for Aunt Wilma to see her niece and namesake one last time. Aunt Wilma was bedridden—had injured her chest and back when she fell from the window—rendering her unable to attend the funeral. Older girl cousins were pallbearers, the only time I ever knew of females serving in this capacity, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

Yes, I’m confident that my first remembrance is Wilma Louise’s death. Nothing permits me to picture her as a walking, breathing toddler. My fourth birthday was twenty days before she died, making the period between my birth and her death a four-year void—a seal never to be broken. That four-year span is part of someone else’s memory, someone older than I, with the ability to call forth details that were, in essence, never part of me.

After my mother died, I was desperate to collect my thoughts, write them down, and hold onto them with all the force of my being. Mother was gone. The countless opportunities of talking with her, recording her thoughts, and getting them down as she remembered them were lost. What a memory she had, and when I think of it being at my disposal, for others to enjoy through the written word, it saddens me that they will never experience its inner beauty—all because of my negligence. How many volumes span a period of ninety years? It’s hard to say, especially with a mind as sharp as Mother’s.

Soon after her death, my wife, Janet, and I, along with another couple, took a two-week trip out West. During the six thousand miles or so that we traveled, I began to mentally relate my experiences with the splendor of all the sites we visited. However, I quickly realized in my attempt at making this comparison—through the process of sightseeing and reminiscing—I am now too old for recalling my life in detail. While I busied myself with living, I was too carefree to record it for a possible future audience. Had I done so, they could have, at their leisure, compared it with their own cherished memories of a lifetime.

There is, then, a lesson to be learned: If we determine within ourselves to immortalize our thoughts with accuracy, then we must set aside sufficient time for taking the initiative to preserve them, treating them with all the tender loving care we can muster. We must guard them as if they are our own flesh and blood, because once we are gone, they are all that is left of us.