Five Things You Don’t See Every Day

As any reader of this blog knows, I grew up in Harlan County, Kentucky. I’ve written extensively about that before, but I got to thinking about some of the things I experienced there that I haven’t seen since. Here is a sampling:

THE NERVE GAS EXPRESS

As my readers know, I grew up in Loyall, Kentucky. When I was a kid, Loyall was home of a Louisville & Nashville Railroad yard, and I lived about 200 yards from the track that ran from the yard to parts unknown. The 1970’s were the time of the Coal Boom and trains ran day and night. They were as much a part of life as the sun coming up. We didn’t give them a thought, until the Nerve Gas Express came to town.

Some one decided to ship old nerve gas by rail to somewhere. Loyall was on that road to somewhere. We knew it coming. It was in the local paper–several times in fact. People talked about what would happen if the train derailed (which they did sometimes) or, God forbid, there was a real wreck (which almost never happened). The nerve gas would leak, and we would all die. Everyone was quite excited.

What was the nerve gas, exactly? I don’t know–sarin gas maybe. I also don’t know where it was headed. I do know that it had the capacity to kill us all.

Given the deadly qualities of this Hellish trainload, one might think that the townspeople would have cowered in their basements or taken cover in old bomb shelters. Remember now, we were Harlan Countians, which means two things: (1) We’re a fearless bunch of hill jacks; and (2) We don’t have a hell of a lot to do most of the time. As a result, we did what you would expect, and gathered by the railroad track to watch the paralyzing cargo roll through Loyall. It was reminiscent of the episode of the Andy Griffith Show where all of Mayberry gathered in town to see the “gold truck” pass through.

REPLACE “GOLD TRUCK” WITH “NERVE GAS,” AND YOU GET THE PICTURE.

I should note that my Dad talked quite a bit about how stupid it was to watch a train go by. He thought it was especially dumb since the only possible excitement was the annihilation of all the spectators. He noted several times that if the gas leaked, you could get the same thrill of being gassed hanging out in your house. He was not a fan of the Nerve Gas Express.

Just as planned, the train came through Loyall. Unlike the Andy Griffith Show, I don’t think it was decoy. As far as I know, it contained enough nerve gas to kill every man, woman, child and beast in the county. I’ll admit that I watched it go by. It was just a train, but everyone seemed pleased. No one cheered, although that would have been somehow appropriate. There were no protestors. No one died.

THE WONDERS OF DUCT TAPE

Okay, the entire world knows about duct tape now, but there was a time when it was actually used mostly for duct work. In the 1970’s, for example, it wasn’t as ubiquitous as today. Naturally, we called it “duck” tape, just as many people do today.

I knew this guy who used it for everything. Have you ever seen a shotgun held together with duct tape? I have. He had a Stevenson shotgun (12 gauge, as I recall), which he affectionately called “Stevie.” Stevie had fallen into disrepair to the point that the stock (that’s the wooden part for you novices) fell off. Duct tape fixed that. He simply taped it back together. I never saw him fire it, but swore it held together. I have my doubts.

The same guy also made his own boots. How, you ask? Three pairs of tube socks and duct tape. I’m not kidding. He said they were both comfortable and water tight.

Okay, that’s actually TWO things you don’t see every day–duct taped a duct taped shotgun and duct tape boots. I’m proud to say that I’ve seen them both, on the same day, in fact.

THE COAL MONUMENT

I’m sure other coal-producing counties have their tributes to coal mining, but we had–and still have–a genuine monument:

Our monument is in Baxter–right in the middle of traffic (such as it is).

You have to navigate your way around the monument, which isn’t too tough these days. Back in the 1960’s and ’70’s, this was the main drag to Harlan and quite busy. Plus, Ken’s Drive-In was a popular eatery across from the monument. For the uninitiated, this was as much a traffic hazard as it was a historical marker. Nowadays, one could comfortably nap in this intersection.

We should salute the builders of the Coal Monument. As I write this, I am 51 years old, and the Monument has been there as long as I can remember. As far as I know, it’s never even been repaired. I don’t know who build it, when or why it’s in Baxter. If anyone knows the story behind it, please let me know.

If you live in Baxter, Kentucky, it’s probably wrong to say you don’t see something like this every day. In fact, you may well see this every single day, but I don’t know many people who live in Baxter. Close enough.

COON ON THE LOG

The only Coon on the Log contests I’ve ever seen were in Harlan County at the Fish and Game Club. What is that, you ask? It involves 1) A raccoon; 2) A log; 3) Water; and 4) Dogs. Here’s how it worked. A raccoon was tied to log. The log was placed in the middle of a pond. The dogs swam out to the log–one at a time, of course–and attempted to knock the raccoon off the log. Simple enough. Now, you ask, what is the entertainment value in that?

You might be a city person who thinks raccoons are cute, like their cuddly cousins, the Pandas. You would be wrong. Raccoons are, in fact, vicious critters. They have sharp teeth and long, razor-like claws. They also have bad dispositions. They might rabies, too, although I don’t believe that is true with competition-level raccoons. Knocking one of these nasty bastards off a log is no mean feat. They fight. They claw. They bite.

I was probably 6 years old or so when I attended the Coon on the Log. My Dad took my brother and me. We sat by the pond and watched the dogs do battle with the hellish beast. I only remember one dog. He was black hunting dog of some sort and could swim like a fish. He swam out the log and immediately engaged the raccoon. They fought tooth and nail until the raccoon managed to claw the dog’s face, sending him back to shore much worse for the wear. The next year, the dog was back, this time with a scarred face. I recall that he vanquished the raccoon. Honestly, it could have been a different less fierce raccoon, but I remember being pleased for the dog nonetheless.

I know you animal lovers are poised over your keyboards to attack me and, possibly, my late father, like a rabid, typing raccoon. This is not an endorsement of Coon on the Log contests. PETA hates them, as you would expect. I doubt that they are very popular anymore, having gone the way of Donkey Basketball and Greased Pig Contests. (I’ve attended both of these events, too, and they were quite entertaining; however, I do understand why the use of cattle prods in a basketball game is now frowned upon). These days, people get all torn up over monkeys riding dogs (possibly the most entertaining thing on Earth, by the way). The Coon on the Log doesn’t stand a chance.

TIRE WALKING

My Dad didn’t throw away things. He always figured he could use them as some point. Old magazines, engine parts and the like might come in handy. For example, when I was a kid, he found a six-pack of beer and put in the trunk of his car. While Dad was fond of Scotch and Bourbon, he didn’t drink beer. But he knew a guy who did. He said he would give the six-pack to that guy. I don’t think he ever did, but he drove around with that six-pack in the trunk of his car for several years–just in case.

Among Dad’s collection were old tires. He would change tires on his cars but keep the old ones. You never know, he might need them one day. During a summer of my childhood, my friend Jimmy and I were bored, having exhausted the possibilities of bike riding and playing Army. So, we started rooting around in my garage where we happened upon two tires. We could do something with those.

The first thing we tried was walking on them, kind of like a circus bear walking on a ball. It just couldn’t be done. Even though we were both slight of build, our inconsiderable weight caused the tires to collapse.

Then, we came up with Tire Wrestling, which consisted of rolling the tires at each other and diving on them. That was kind of fun, but we couldn’t devise a scoring system. So, there ended up not being much point to it. It never caught on, not even with Jimmy and me.

I didn’t give up on the idea of walking on tires but just couldn’t master it. Then, Uncle Jack showed up. My Uncle Jack was my Dad’s younger brother and probably in his 40’s at the time. As a bachelor, Jack spent a lot of time at our house. Jack had all kinds of tricks. He would pull out his dentures and put a cigarette between them and make the cigarette bounce up and down. He could play a mean harmonica. He could shuffle cards like a magician. He was always entertaining.

Jack was a small man, about 5′ 5″, maybe 140 pounds. His hair was the kind of silvery-white you want if your hair turns gray. He was quick with a joke or some smart-ass comment, and always laughed at his own stories. He chain-smoked Phillip Morris non-filter cigarettes.

One day, I was on the back porch with a tire leaned against the side of the porch, studying the possibilities. Our porch was a wooden structure about 3 or 4 feet high with railing only on the sides and 5 or 6 steps on the left hand side. I was on the steps when Jack and Dad stepped out on the porch.

“Whatta ya know, boy?” Jack asked (this was the same greeting I got from Jack for the remaining 40 years of his life). I explained that I had tried to walk on the tire but couldn’t do it. Jack said, “Let me see that tire. I can do that.” Dad looked at Jack and said, “Now, Jack, you’ll break your neck on that thing.”

Jack ignored Dad, as he usually did whenever Dad started a sentence with “Now, Jack….” Jack balanced the tire perpendicular to the porch, stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and grabbed the side rail of the porch with his left hand. He was ready to roll.

He did it. It was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. He just stepped off the porch on top of the tire and took off. He looked like a tap dancer on hot coals. His arms stuck out to side for balance and a thin trail of cigarette smoke coursed behind him like a contrail.

Had we owned a clothes dryer, I’m confident that he would have made all the way across the yard to the back fence. As it was, our clothes line ended the ride. It caught Jack just under the chin and flipped him backward off the tire. He slammed to the ground like bag of sand. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, he hopped up, grabbed his smoke off the ground and just laughed. Dad was laughing himself into a fit on the back porch. If you think walking on a tire is easy, try it sometime.

I could tell a lot of other stories about Jack but that one stands out. Jack was always entertaining. Every kid needs an Uncle Jack.

Well, that’s it. Five things you don’t see every day. If you’re ever in Harlan County, ask a local for directions to the Coal Monument. I can’t promise you that will see any of the other things I described, but I’m confident that the Monument will still be there.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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Hunting Big Foot

This should read “Loyall, Home of Big Foot.”

I grew up in the Golden Age of Big Foot–the 1970’s. I also grew up in the Land of Big Foot–Harlan County, Kentucky. I realize that the proper spelling of the species is “bigfoot,” but I prefer “Big Foot,” as his proper name. I never saw Big Foot, but he was around, lurking.

Some 40 years later, my contemporaries ponder the state of the World. They grieve over politics and social issues. They worry about such mundane topics as prostate health and cardiovascular disease. I, however, still think about Big Foot.

Eastern Kentucky has always had its share of tall tales. There was Old John Shell, reputedly living to the ripe of old age of 130. He killed a bear with his bare hands in a creek. Thus, that creek is now known as Greasy Creek from the grease left by the bear’s carcass. My Papaw used tell of a headless man who roamed the woods in Island Creek in Pike County.

We now live in a new era of Big Foot. He’s making a comeback. The History Channel used to be devoted to subjects like war–you know, history. Now, it has shows about Big Foot. Big Foot is on the Science Channel, The Learning Channel and others. He’s a star again.

I first became familiar with Big Foot’s cousin, The Abominable Snowman. The Abominable, of course, was one of the stars of the classic Christmas special, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. He terrified me, even after Hermey sadistically pulled all his teeth.

I learned of the real Abominable through a magazine article–it might have been in Boy’s Life. Someone had made plaster casts of his foot prints. They were huge! He had to be real.

It was around that time that I first heard of Big Foot. He might be known as Sasquatch elsewhere, but in Harlan County, he was–and will always remain–Big Foot. Harlan County had Big Foot.

To be precise, Loyall had Big Foot. Loyall is where I grew up. It was–and is now–a small town. For years, the sign into town said “Population 1100.” I guess that was right. I don’t know how long Loyall has been there, but I’d guess since 1911, the year the first trainload of coal was shipped out of Harlan County.

Loyall is a railroad town, home of a railroad yard. Originally, it was the Louisville & Nashville Railroad. Today, it’s CSX. The “Yard” is huge, full of old relics and buildings which haven’t been used in decades, but it still runs trains. It seems like most folks in Loyall worked for the railroad. My uncle Jack was the Trainmaster at the Yard. He made sure the trains ran on time–literally.

The Loyall Yard, many years ago. It looks pretty much the same today.

I lived most of my childhood in Rio Vista, a subdivision of sorts just outside Loyall. It was 5 blocks of houses and a nice, quiet place to live. Nice neighbors, you slept with your doors unlocked, etc–typical small town USA. The only downside was that we lived right by the railroad tracks–as did most folks in Loyall. Even today, I’m sure I could sleep soundly right by a train track.

Just outside Loyall is a mammoth cemetery, Resthaven. That’s where my parents and younger brother–and many others–are interred. Near the cemetery was a curved railroad bridge, which I was told was the first curved railroad bridge in the country. I doubt that, but I like to think it’s true. So, Loyall was pretty ordinary. Our biggest claim to fame was being saluted once on Hee Haw.

Even though Loyall was ordinary, it had its mysteries. For example, there was Good Neighbor Road. For the most part, it was just a little road at the foot of Park Hill lined with houses. After about a half mile, the road ran out and turned into dirt. People lived on that stretch, too, but I don’t know who they were. Their dogs were vicious and would chase you like a pack of wolves. Past those few homes was the sewer plant. Past that was a big old house full of people. We didn’t know them or what they were about. A friend of mine and I used to go into the woods above that house and look at it with binoculars. It looked like the house in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. We never saw anything interesting going on, but it was still creepy. We knew they were up to no good. My knew those folks and said they were alright. I’m sure he was wrong about that.

Then, there was Old Loyall which really was no different from “new” Loyall except that’s where the Yard was located, and I guess it was older. It’s also where City Hall and the fire department were–and still are–located. But, on the other side of the Yard was a strange stretch of road running behind the Yard. In the back of the yard were a couple of old school buses with stove pipes in the windows. People lived in those buses. At least, I think they were people.

Our biggest mystery was Long Hollow. It is above Park Hill, where I moved at age 12. We lived–literally–on the side of the mountain. The city of Harlan was on the other side of the mountain. On our side of the mountain was a holler (“hollow” for you city folks). That was Long Hollow, land of mystery. To get to it, you had to hike straight through the woods above our house, maybe 500 feet. Then, you hit the old mine road which you could follow for about a mile. When it ran out, you just hiked. Long Hollow was shaded, cool and more than a little eerie. This is where Big Foot resided.

When I say I lived on the side of the mountain, I mean it.

I think my friend Norman first made me aware of Big Foot. Norman was a font of information, some true and some false. He knew of Big Foot, because Big Foot lived up above his house, deep in the woods. Deep in Long Hollow, the mysterious cove well back in the mountain.

An aerial shot of Loyall showing Big Foot’s last known whereabouts.

It was probably in the 3rd or 4th grade that Norman described the great beast to me. Big Foot had “the eyes of man; the nose of a bear; the ears of a man; the mouth of a bear; the hands of a man; the feet of a bear.” Whew. That’s one scary-sounding abomination. Even at that young age, I could recognize exaggeration or outright lying, but it was an entertaining tale.

Norman and I saw the movie The Legend of Boggy Creek at the Margie Grand Theater in Harlan. It was sort of a mock-documentary about the Boggy Creek Monster, kind of a poor man’s Big Foot. This film had production values that would embarrass a pornographer, but it terrified me. If Big Foot was anything like the Boggy Creek Monster, we were in trouble.

As an aside, the atmosphere of the Margie Grand made the film all the scarier. The Margie Grand was an old theater–really old. Plaster hung in big chunks from the ceiling. The balcony sagged dangerously overhead. The only time I was ever in there when the balcony was open, some kid peed off it–on to the audience below. That’s a special effect George Lucas never thought of. It had an old stage in front of the screen. Norman and I would throw popcorn on the stage and watch the rats run out to eat it. It added a certain grimy creepiness to anything you watched. Years later, I watched The Legend of Boggy Creek on TV. It wouldn’t frighten a preschooler. But, at the Margie Grand, you half-expected the Boggy Creek Monster to be selling tickets.

We hunted for Big Foot. Imagine, two small 10-year-old kids, heading into the woods, with knives on our belts seeking a beast which would tear us limb from limb. We would stab him to death if it came to it. We were ready to take him on.

We walked the mining road, occasionally stopping to play with the old equipment. Hey, we might have been Big Foot Hunters, but we were still kids. An old dump truck was pretty cool. Sometimes we encountered feral dogs or “wild” dogs as we called them. Skinny, mangy and growling–they were damn scary. I don’t care what kind of dog-lover you are, these mutts would scare the hell out of you. Sometimes, we’d go inside the portals of the old coal mines, an action far more dangerous than Big Foot.

I made several treks into Long Hollow to look for Big Foot. I never found him. Oh, occasionally, I saw his footprints or heard him off in the distance. But, I never had the chance to take him on with my knife, which, incidentally, my cousin brought to me straight from Vietnam.

Some 40 years later, I still have my Big Foot hunting knife.

Even though we never saw Big Foot, people still had some fun with him. I knew a kid who was obsessed with, and terrified by, Big Foot. His father sawed huge feet out of plywood, strapped them to his feet and stomped around in their yard when it snowed. He made tracks right up to his son’s bedroom window. The kid didn’t sleep for weeks. That’s a good way to assure years of therapy.

A friend of mine and I once took another kid in the woods to show him where we “saw” Big Foot. We had another kid waiting to jump out and scare him. Of course, we had no Big Foot costume nor were any us 9 or 10 feet tall. Our ersatz Big Foot leaped from behind a tree screaming his best Big Foot scream and whacking a tree with a stick. It sounded kind of like “YOWWWWWYAAHHH!!” He had improvised his own Big Foot costume by combining a football helmet with a green Army poncho. Strangely, it worked and our poor dupe ran screaming out of the woods.

Mostly, Big Foot disappointed me. Honestly, I never saw him. I also never saw any footprints. I tried hard to imagine that I did. I had seen the eponymous Big Foot film (known as the Patterson Film to us Big Foot-philes). That’s what I wanted to see, but I didn’t.

Truthfully, I’ve always been a bit of a coward. If I had really believed he existed, I probably wouldn’t have set foot in those woods. Nevertheless, it was fun to think about it. It still is.

Eventually, Big Foot became like the Wallins Creek Panther. I heard for years that there was a panther in Wallins. A HUGE panther. After awhile, I realized that if that many people had seen it, someone would have killed it. Big Foot–being gargantuan–couldn’t have hidden that long. Say what you will about Harlan County, but our people won’t hesitate to kill something.

Gradually, Big Foot left my consciousness. He became a thing of memories, like 10 cent cokes and baseball cards. When I visited my parents, I would sometimes look up toward Long Hollow and think about hiking around. Mostly, though, I thought about how my parents must have been crazy to allow an 10-year-old to wander off into the woods. I wouldn’t allow my kids to walk to the corner at that age.

One night, my sons and I watched an atrocious film called Yeti on the SciFi Channel. Yeti (or Yetti) is another name for the Abominable Snowman. This Yeti was a maniac, able to leap 40 feet in the air and cover 100 yards in a single bound. He slaughters most of the football team from “State University” whose plane crashed on his mountain. Eventually, the Yeti falls off a cliff. Of course, we find out in the final frame that there were two Yetis, setting the stage for a sequel. It did, though, bring back my memories of Big Foot.

I’m not sure what has caused the rest of the world’s renewed interest in Big Foot. Maybe he’s just making a comeback like zombies have done in last few years. I hope no one captures him. Capturing is for wusses. Stab him to death. That was my plan.

One thing that has always puzzled me is whether there are multiple bigfoots (bigfeet?). I mean, there have to be, right? They re-produce, I guess. Or maybe Big Foot is 130 years old like Old John Shell. That might make more sense.

So, there you have it. An actual Big Foot hunter right in your midst. Oh, by the way, the men’s room at the Margie Grand had its toilet at the bottom of a long flight of stairs. You had to stand on the steps to pee. Weird.

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