Autobiography – Johnny Walker

These are excerpts from my autobiography.

By Johnny Walker

Sixteen Hill

When I was about three years old, my grandparents, Dorthy and Riley Curry agreed to take care of their first grandchild.

Sixteen Hill at Mud Fork became my world until I was six years old. Approximately a dozen houses of varying shapes and sizes formed the little community where I was to reside. Three natural benches, each containing a small road, provided access to the homes. My grandparents’ house was a three-room structure with a flat roof which continuously required “Black Mammie” to stop leaks. The walls of the tiny dwelling consisted of rough sawn lumber which had been green when installed. Needless to say, as the boards dried, a space developed between each board requiring a couple of layers of tar paper to help winterize the house. A warm morning coal stove, located in the middle room of the ramshackle structure, was their sole source of heat. Although the barrel-shaped heater was a hard worker, it had difficulty providing heat for the entire home. During extremely cold weather, my grandmother kept a blanket hanging over the doorway to each of the other rooms. This helped confine the heat to the living area with the stove.

Most of the men living on 16 Hill were working or had worked in coal mines. Ellis Dean lived next door to my grandparents. He had been involved in a mining accident that left him crippled. His hand-carved cane provided the stability needed for walking. The rough-looking house located behind Mr. Dean was occupied by Andy and Surry Sweeney. Andy was working for a mining company when he was caught stealing copper. I remember being in court with my grandparents when the judge sentenced him to prison. Out the road, a short distance lived the Garfield Hensely family. Garfield eventually died in the Holden Mine Disaster in 1960. His son, Dallas, was my best friend while I lived with my grandparents. The property adjoining the vacant dwelling next to the Henselys was owned by George Evans who had nine children. George and one of his sons worked for the same coal company. Lidge and Saldab Swims occupied a three-room dwelling below George Evans. Saldab smoked wings cigarettes and told people’s fortunes with cards. Lidge must have been employed in the mines because his face was always dirty. Nick Midoff and Marah lived below my grandparents. He owned one of the larger lots on the hill. Nick eventually left the mines and moved to Arizona. The doctors told him that the dry air would help his breathing condition. Two years after his arrival, he died of black lung.

The freedom I was able to experience with my little friend Dallas, who was my age, will never be forgotten. As four and five-year-olds, we were miniature Tom Sawyers and Huckleberry Finns. Life was just one adventure after another. I discovered the sweetness of a pawpaw after the first frost. I learned that if you eat too many green apples, your belly would hurt. Riley built me a homemade sled which allowed me to experience the thrill of speeding down a snowy slope in Jim Baisden’s broom sage field. Somehow Dorthy and Riley were able to buy me a bright red scooter and wagon, which was unusual because of the scarcity of things during the war years. Access to the houses on Sixteen Hill was via a steep rocky road. Any type of car or truck that could make it up the hill was a “good un” according to Riley. One day I took my little red wagon down to the bottom of the hill and then pulled it back up the hill to my grandparents’ house. Walking into the kitchen, and with a hint of pride, I told them that my wagon sure was a “good un” because it had climbed that hill.

The three-room house, we dwelled in on Sixteen Hill, had been constructed on a sloping lot. My grandfather kept coal underneath that portion of the house which rested on poles to achieve a semblance of levelness. As a three and half-year-old grandchild, one of my self-appointed chores was to help carry coal in for the warm morning stove. Of course, the coal bucket I used was considerably smaller than those used by my grandparents, but being part of the coal-carrying task, and receiving praise for my effort, made me feel as though my small bucket was comparable to theirs.

The operational procedure of the stove fascinated me, and I couldn’t wait until I was big enough to be totally involved. Initially, when the door of the heater was opened, the red glow of the fire and the sound of burning coal scared me. It didn’t take long, however, before I was looking inside the stove each time coal was added. After watching my grandfather use the poked to break up the big ash in the stove, I felt that the poker task was something I would like to do. Well, it took quite a bit of pleading and begging, before he finally allowed me to use the poker. My grandmother normally removed the ashes. After shaking the ashes down into the ash pan, she carefully removed them with an ash shovel. An old water bucket was used to carry them outside to a pile that grew with each passing winter.

The coal underneath the house came from various places where we could pick it up without a charge. One of my grandfather’s favorite spots for getting coal was at the slate dump located in a small hollow near the company store at 16 Mud Fork. Trucks would haul waste material from a local tipple and dump it from the top of the slate dump. The loads normally contained a mixture of slate and coal, and once dumped, a lot of the coal rolled to the bottom of the pile. After locating a spot where the trucks weren’t dumping, my grandfather would park his truck beside the toe of the pile, and we would pick coal out of the slate and put it in the truck. That dump eventually caught fire and it became very difficult to pick coal what with the smoke, fumes, and flaming chunks rolling down the slopes.

It was during this time that I came to know such wonderful people as Roy Rogers, Red Ryder and Little Beaver, Hopalong Cassidy, the Durango Kid, and Lash LaRue. Every Saturday, my grandparents took me to the Middleburg Theater in Logan. These heroes of the cinema provided me with many hours of make-believe, as I rode my stick horse, and shot bad guys with an imaginary six-shooter. The cellophane bags of popcorn added to the pleasure of a five-year-old cowboy fan clad in bib overalls and a red bandana tied around his neck.

Cora

My mother married Clyde Musick in 1948.  I left 16 Mud Fork Hill to live with them at Cora, WV, on my sixth birthday. The party she had arranged took some of the sadness out of leaving my grandparents on that special day. It was difficult at first, but as I befriended some of the neighborhood children, a whole new world opened for me.

We lived in one of two rentals situated on each side of a vacant garage. The four-room dwellings were owned by Tony Dress and his wife Tootsie. It was in these living quarters that I had my first experience with a commode and indoor plumbing.

The new life with mother and my stepfather was totally different from the one I knew while living with my grandparents. The discipline and rules encountered at my new home, and the first grade at Mt. Gay Grade School, were difficult for me to adjust to. As a five-year-old, living with Dorothy and Riley, I had enjoyed a large amount of freedom on Sixteen Mud Fork Hill. Needless to say, I longed for those days on that Saturday morning in January, 1949, as I ate my bowl of corn flakes.

Because of the rain, mother had said that I couldn’t practice riding my new 24″ bicycle, received as a Christmas present. Well, a six-year-old boy, who had spent most of his life with grandparents, couldn’t understand why his wishes were not granted.

Getting up from the table, I went into the bedroom where mother was folding clothes and renewed my plea to ride the bike. Mother, becoming irritated, said, “Johnny, I said no, and that is final! I don’t want to hear any more about a bicycle.”

Like most spoiled six-year-old boys, I stomped out the front door onto our tiny porch and slammed the door behind me. Wiping tears from my eyes, I climbed up on the wooden icebox that had been replaced by a new refrigerator mother had gotten shortly after school started. Two of my friends, Charlie Shannon and Tommy Greene, and I had played around the icebox on several occasions. A favorite game was for one of us to put something, a treasure, in one of the compartments while the other two turned their backs. After the doors were closed and latched, they would turn and try to guess the door concealing the treasure. The one making the right choice got his turn hiding the chosen object.
The upper left compartment, designed to store blocks of ice, was large enough for one of us to get in. Always looking for a new experience, we took turns climbing into this enclosure while the others closed the door. Curled in a fetal position, we would wait for the door to be unlatched so that they could take their turn in the metal-lined cubicle. A few days earlier, mother had caught us participating in this little game. Highly upset, she scolded us and explained the danger of this activity, and told us never to play such a game again. Before going back into the house, she promised to have Clyde remove the latches when he got home from work.

With an act of childish defiance, I got down from the top of the icebox, climbed into the larger compartment, and pulled the door shut. As the door closed, I heard the latch fall in place. Pushing against the door, I was unable to open it. Fear gripped me, and I began to scream and cry. Unable to move, I began to have trouble breathing, It felt as though the walls, of the deadly enclosure, was moving in on me. While in this state of terror, I heard a voice saying, “Which one are you in?” As the door opened, I saw Charlie Shannon reaching his hand toward me, to aid in my escape from that cubicle of death.

My first response was to run into the house to my mother. Falling into her arms, I began to sob beyond control. Realizing that something terrible had happened, mother asked, “Honey, what is wrong? Have you hurt yourself or something?”
Still crying, I explained what had happened, and how Charlie had come along and opened the door allowing me to escape from the icebox compartment. Mother began to cry, and looking toward Charlie, said, “Oh my God, Charlie, thank you so much for saving my baby’s life!”

Continuing in a voice of compassion and love, “Honey, I heard a noise, and I thought you were out back hitting on the side of the house.”

“Oh, my baby, my baby, my baby! It’s okay. Everything is going to be alright.”

The Lord’s Prayer

In the fall of 1950, I was sitting at a school desk in Mrs. Dyer’s third-grade class, of Mt Gay Grade School, listening to Carol Jean Ellis recite the Lords Prayer. Our teacher had given the class an assignment, two weeks earlier, to memorize the prayer.

As she finished, Mrs. Dyer said, “Excellent job, Carol Jean. Now, Johnny, it’s your turn.”

Mother had worked with me two nights in a row, and I was able to say the prayer, only once, without making a mistake. Nervously rising from my seat, I began, “Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy Name.” Pausing, and swallowing real big, I continued, “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread. And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” Stopping to swallow again, I said, “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.”

Immediately a big smile came on my eight-year-old face, as Mrs. Dyer said, “Another excellent recital. Thank you, Johnny.”

At recess, Carol Jean came over to where I was shooting marbles with Johnny Patterson, and handed me a brand new pencil. Smiling, she said, “I’m glad you did good with your prayer. Tommy gave me five pencils, and I want you to have one.” She had told everyone that she liked me.

Twenty-five years later, Jack West and I attended the annual WVU-Pitt football game in Morgantown, West Virginia. Our seats were facing the Mountaineer’s bench on the other side of the field. The team had warmed up and was waiting for the coin toss.

I turned to Jack and said, “Man, you couldn’t ask for a better day for football.” Looking back across the field, I saw Bobby Bowden and his coaches, along with the entire football team down on their knees praying. I had never seen anything like that before. I was spellbound. The young men, with helmets removed and heads bowed, had a profound effect on me. With eyes filled with tears, I heard myself saying, “I must do that with my Rotary Football team.”

The Mountaineers won 17-14. There was a lot of back-slapping and high fives by WVU fans. Jack and I did our share of celebrating also.

Congested streets were common occurrences, in Morgantown, following football games. It took close to half an hour before we could head south.

After crossing the Guyandotte River near Pineville, West Virginia, I began to think about the Rotary Football team that I coached. Our next game was Tuesday night, and I began to question my decision to say a prayer before the game. Immediately, a sense of guilt popped into my head. I had made up my mind and that was final.

Then, in a state of panic, I realized I didn’t know how to pray. And, at that very moment, an amazing peace came over me, as the Lords Prayer experience, while in the third grade, entered my mind.
With a sense of relief, I silently recited the beautiful words of Jesus’ prayer.

Tuesday evening finally rolled around. Rotary was to play 40&8 in the first game of Welch’s Midget League Football Program. After our warm-up, I gathered the team together in a close circle. With their helmets removed, I told them we were going to say the Lord’s Prayer out loud. Looking at those young faces with perspiration on their brows, I knew I was doing the right thing. With a voice filled with emotion, I said, “Let’s join hands in the middle and bow our heads.” To my surprise, most of them repeated it with me. After sayin’ Amen, we let out a big shout. I felt good.

We won the game. Whether the win was because of the Lord’s Prayer, I didn’t know. But I knew from that point on, pre-game prayer would be a practice of my Rotary Football teams.

Tank

Leaning against the window seal, Mr. Williams said, “Alright, Johnny, now explain how you arrived at the last part of the problem.”

Although most of the Business Math Class was made up of my teammates on the Wildcat football team, I still felt uncomfortable standing before them trying to explain a math procedure, especially knowing that Donald Hylton would be throwing me a bird finger, and Don Farley would be making those “Wiley Coyote & Road Runner sounds under his breath. Thankfully, the bell rang just as I started the explanation.

As I headed back to my desk to get my books, Mr. Williams said, “Hey Johnny, wait up, I want to talk to you for a minute.”

Turning around, I saw that familiar smile displaying a shiny gold tooth which had become his mark of distinction.

Mr. Williams’ name was William Williams, and his nickname was Tank. He was the first black teacher at Logan High School. A six foot two inches 200 pounds plus stature gave his students good reason to believe that he played football at Bluefield State College.

His well-groomed mustache complimented the immaculate blue suit and crisp white shirt he wore daily.

His authoritative demeanor was established the first day of class, when he said to all of us, especially referring to the football players, “Listen, I’m the only man in this room. If any of you doubt it, step up here and I will throw your butt out this window.” Continuing, he said, “As long as you understand that, we’ll get along just fine.”

Needless to say, we believed him. Mr. Williams became a mentor and a great friend of mine.

As I walked over to where he was leaning against the window seal, he asked, “Johnny, what are you going to do when you graduate?”

Somewhat surprised at the question, I answered, “I guess I’ll join the Navy.”

“Did you ever consider college?”

Taken back by his interest in me, I replied, “Well, yes, but I don’t have any money, and my parents can’t help me.”

Continuing, he said, “Listen, if you really want to go to college, there is always a way.”

“What do you think you would like to be?”

Not sure how to answer truthfully, I replied, “Well, I love the out of doors, and being a forester has always had an appeal to me”

With a surprised tone in his voice, Tank said, “A forester! Man, I don’t know about that, but in a way, I can see how that might fit you.”

“You are shy, and there appears to be a longing in your eyes and spirit. I bet you could adjust to solitude very well.”

Pausing, he said, “Let me do a little checking for you. Maybe, I might be able to come up with a few things.”

Looking at his watch, he said, “You’d better hussle out of here or you’ll be late for your next class.”

Tank Williams was true to his word. He talked to Mrs. Bell, my former typing teacher, whose husband, John Bell, was a forester on the Island Creek Forest in Logan County. A meeting was set, and I visited Mrs. Bell’s home and met her husband. He explained about being a forester and the college courses required to obtain a degree in forestry. He mentioned a four-year scholarship given by Gilbert Lumber Company in Gilbert, West Virginia, and indicated he would get an application for me. I applied for the scholarship but was not chosen to receive it.

Mr. Williams helped me in applying for a National Defense Student Loan which was available for high school graduates whose parents made less than a certain yearly income. That loan allowed me to attend and graduate from West Virginia University with a BS degree in Forest Management.

As I reflect back on that period of my life, I know that the guidance, mentoring, and compassion by certain people was not by chance. Discipline, hard work, and teamwork were learned from such beautiful people as Coach Todd Willis and Coach Nick Rahall. My interest in plants and living things were cultivated by John Smith, by biology teacher. Mrs. Bell’s willingness to open her home to me so I could meet with her husband and be enlightened about the forestry profession was an example of kindness I will never forget. And last but not least, the Lord also allowed me to cross paths with one of His very unique people. Without the encouragement and guidance of William Williams, I would have entered the Navy and more than likely never pursued a college degree in forestry. On numerous occasions, while roaming the ridges and hollows of our beautiful Appalachian Mountains, I have thanked my Heavenly Father for allowing people such as Tank Williams to be an important part of my life.

Legacy of Kindness

During my senior year at Logan High School, my next-door neighbor, at Whites Addition, had recommended me for a Kroger Scholarship. Dave Sims was a supervisor for the Kroger Store in Logan, and had taken a special interest in me. I was fortunate enough to receive the scholarship which was $250 for my freshman year at WVU. This was definitely a welcome addition to the National Defense Student Loan that I was to receive.

At the end of the first semester of my freshman year, I had a 1.9 grade average, and 2.0 was needed to retain the Kroger Scholarship. At registration for the second semester, I met Dr. Bill Kidder who was an advisor for needy students having problems. Dr. Kidder helped me keep my scholarship, and stayed in touch throughout the second semester. My grade point average improved to a 2.9.

Dr. Kidder taught at the Agriculture School at WVU, and helped me get a part-time job during my sophomore year with Dr. Dorsey who taught Entomology. After spring break, Dr. Dorsey informed me that a summer job position was available with him, if I was interested. This sounded great, but being able to afford a place to stay in Morgantown, and save money for school was impossible.

At that point, I had no other job possibilities for the summer, and was very concerned. A week later the phone rang at our apartment on Stewart Street, and the familiar voice of Dr. Kidder said, “I was talking with Dr. Dorsey today, and he informed me that you were told of a summer job with him, if you were interested. He indicated you hadn’t given a firm answer.” Continuing, he asked, “Are you interested or do you have something else lined up?”

Somewhat caught off guard, especially since I hadn’t talked to Dr. Kidder in over a month. I answered, “No, I don’t have any other possibilities, and would love to work with Dr. Dorsey. But I don’t have any place to stay, and if I paid rent, I wouldn’t be able to save money for school.”

After a short pause, and chuckling, he replied, “Well, where there’s a will, there’s a way. Let me do a little checking, and see what I can come up with.”

Two days later he called and said, “I’ve got a little proposition to offer you, and I believe it will be good for you, and good for me and a friend of mine. I plan to spend a few weeks traveling throughout the western part of the country, during the months of June and July, and will need a house sitter to take care of my yard, flower garden, and watch my house. A good friend of mine, Dr. Carvell, has a similar need for the last part of July and the first two weeks of August. It won’t cost you a thing.” Pausing, he asked, “Are you interested?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Almost shouting, I answered, “Yes! I am definitely interested.”

On Saturday, of that week, Dr. Kidder picked me up and showed me where he and Dr. Carvell lived. While at his house, we went down into his basement, and he opened a large freezer filled with food. Pointing to the packs of meat on top, he said, “See that meat. Most of it is steak. If not eaten before long, it will be freezer burned. While I am gone, see if you can keep me from having to throw that prime meat away. Eat what you can.”

The work with Dr. Dorsey was interesting, but I soon learned that research can be tedious and boring. I spent many hours hunched over a petri dish separating alfalfa aphids from grass seed and other debris which had been collected on research plots of alfalfa growing in the eastern part of WV. Different insecticides had been applied to various plots, and certain conclusions were determined from my aphid count. On a few occasions, my mind would drift back to the tedious work done for Mr. Rogers at Whites Addition, and I wondered if that might have been pre-arranged training for my job in the lab that summer. Occasionally, Dr. Dorsey commented that I had the patience of Job. He would say, “Not many young people would put in the hours you do, with the lab samples, without complaining big time.”

Not understanding what the phrase, “Patience of Job” meant, I asked Dr. Kidder about it after he returned from his trip out West. He explained that in the Bible, there was a man named Job that God allowed a lot of bad things to happen to him, including his children being killed by a great storm. In all of this, Job didn’t complain to God, and told his wife that God didn’t only allow just good things to happen to a person, but some bad things can happen also. Eventually, Job was given twice as much as he had before, because of his faithfulness, and not sinning with his mouth.

I had never heard anything like that before. It seemed unfair for the man named Job, but I appreciated Dr. Dorsey’s exaggerated comparison.

Harman Powers

A group of us from First Baptist Church in Big Stone Gap, VA, began attending an early morning prayer gathering led by Gary Bradshaw in the mid-’80s. This was a time of tremendous growth for me, especially in prayer and praise. The Lord allowed me to meet such spirit-filled people as Jewel Carter, Paul and Boots Snodgrass, Tolley and Betty Newberry, and Gary Bradshaw. Their excitement for Jesus Christ and their yearning to meet Him in prayer each morning blessed me to such an extent that I began mimicking their enthusiasm. Before long, I discovered that my excitement was real, and looked forward to the gatherings. Bo, a friend of Gary Bradshaw, started attending shortly after I joined the group. Being an accomplished guitar player, he began leading us in praise music before each session of prayer. The music and prayer was definitely my springboard for each day.

As I headed to work on a Thursday, during the month of February 1985, I kept thinking about the testimony of Jewell Carter. She had sat next to me that morning, and before we began to pray, she told how she had sliced her finger with a butcher knife while preparing a meal at her home. Instead of going to the emergency room at the local hospital, she felt led to read the words of James 5:14-16. With a dishtowel wrapped around her finger, she retrieved her Bible, located the verses, and began to proclaim God’s Word. The scripture said to call for the elders of the church, have them to pray over you, and anoint you with oil. Jewell said that she didn’t call for the elders, but she was able to anoint herself with cooking oil. After applying the oil, and praying as fervently as she knew how, Jewell felt the healing power of God come over her. The badly cut finger immediately stopped bleeding, and a band-aid was all that was needed to cover the injury. Two days later the wound had completely healed. The excitement exhibited as she related the incident blessed me beyond measure.

Pulling into Blackwood Fuel’s parking lot at the tipple, I cut off the ignition of the company truck, and immediately took my Bible from the vehicle’s dash. Thumbing through God’s Word, I finally found the verses in the book of James that Jewell had referred to. After reading the scripture, especially the part that said, “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much,” I wondered how long it would take a relatively new Christian, such as myself, to become righteous enough to pray such a thing as an effectual fervent prayer.

Three weeks later, as Harman Powers and I drove up the Spur to the Morris Seam level where our crew planned to work that day, he turned to me, and said, “Johnny, my left shoulder is killing me this morning. It hurt so bad last night, I hardly slept at all. I started to stay home this morning.”

Hoping it wasn’t anything serious, I asked, “Do you think you’ve pulled a muscle or strained your shoulder in any way?”

“No, not that I recall. Man, I’ve never had anything to hurt like this before. I took a couple of Tylenol. Maybe that’ll cause it to ease up.”

As we drove around the road to where the equipment was parked, I began to think about Jewell Carter and her cut-finger testimony. Pulling in beside the dozer that he normally operated, a sense of boldness came over me, and I turned to Harman and inquired, “Do you believe that God can heal people?”

Somewhat caught off guard, he hesitantly answered, “Well, yes. I don’t go to church, but I do believe there’s a God. I guess He heals people.”

Getting more bolder, I continued, “Do you believe God can heal you of the pain in your shoulder?”

Unsure of what to say, he replied, “Well, if He heals other folks, I guess He could heal me.”

Removing my Bible from the dash of the truck, I turned to the page of the verses that Jewell had mentioned at our prayer session, and began to read them to Harman. Closing the Bible, I said, “I’m going to pray for your healing this morning, but first, I’ve got to anoint you with oil. Since the only oil we have is a container of 30 weight oil in the toolbox. I’ll have to use that, if it’s okay.”

Not fully understanding what was about to take place, he answered, “If you think it’s all right, I don’t have any problem with it. All I’m interested in is getting relief for this dang shoulder of mine.”

Removing the cap from the motor oil container, I poured a small amount on my finger, and made a cross on Harman’s forehead, and told him, “This oil doesn’t have any magical power to it. All I’m doing is what it says in the Bible.”

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I prayed for his healing the best that I knew how. When I said Amen, I felt a slight movement in Harman’s shoulder.

Turning to me with tears in his eyes, he said, “Johnny, I don’t know what you did, but my shoulder has quit hurting.”

Totally filled with elation, I kept saying, “Praise God! Praise God, Praise God.”

Harman eventually became a Christian, and his shoulder never bothered him again. His testimony of 30 weight motor oil being used in his healing, on the Morris Seam of Black Mountain, was heard by many.

Summer Jobs – Curt Rogers

During the four years I spent at WVU, I was able to earn enough money during the summer months to supplement the government student loan I was receiving to carry me through each year. My summer employment, although varied, allowed experiences that not only helped me in the classroom, but in my walk as a forester as well.

The summer following my graduation from Logan High School in 1960, was the time of what I considered as my first experience with a real job. At least that was how I viewed the opportunity of being hired with the Oak Wilt Program of WV. Prior to this promotion in the work a day world of Dwight Eisenhower, I had delivered the Charleston Gazette newspaper at Whites Addition for several years. Rising at 5:30 in the morning was a way of life until my junior year in high school. Along with this employment, I was fortunate enough to work for Curt Rogers who lived in the upper end of Whites Addition.

The work I did for Mr. Rogers occurred mostly during the summer months and was very menial. It varied from mowing his golf green yard to pulling weeds in a beautiful flower garden of gladiolas and chrysanthemums. The twenty cents per hour wage was a welcomed amount at summer’s end when school clothes were needed. Although the pay was low and the labor strenuous and tedious, the invaluable life principles gained from my elderly employer are still with me today.

His patient and gentle way of explaining the proper techniques of using a shovel, mattock, hedge clippers, or push lawn mower, removed most of my fear of making a mistake. He sensed my desire to please and was liberal with compliments. A smile accented with remnants of tobacco juice at the corners of his mouth normally followed encouragement.

Curt Rogers was a tall man with a slight stoop in his shoulders. An old crumpled fedora hat, which covered a full head of grey hair, rarely left his head except when wiping sweat from a wrinkle-free forehead, of a 75-year-old face. A set of light blue eyes tucked beneath bushy brows had a tendency to sparkle and dance when telling one of his funny life experiences. Those same eyes could tear up easily when relating difficult times in a life of hardships and accomplishments.

Mr. Rogers was a retired coal operator who had developed a method of grinding used clutch plates from mining machinery so that they could be reused. He worked alone and was extremely busy. He needed help in maintaining and assisting in the many projects he had initiated after purchasing his house and property.

Curt Rogers was a self-taught man. I viewed him as a combination of Luthur Burbank and Thomas Edison. His knowledge of plants and their cultivation appeared limitless to a fourteen-year-old boy working under the strict guidelines set by his elderly employer. He was a firm believer in doing it right the easiest way, no matter what the task might be. Although strict in wanting things done his way, he was not lax with his praise for doing a good job.

The Thomas Edison side of Mr. Rogers was demonstrated in his development of a primitive fluid drive transmission system for one of his vehicles before anyone else. For some reason, he didn’t follow up with a patent.

On numerous occasions, when I would be pulling weeds in his perfectly aligned rows of Dahlias and Chrysanthemums, he would sit on his favorite stool, and share many of his ideas and life experiences. One of his favorite topics was the awesome energy and power generated by ocean currents and tidal waves which he elaborated on with great enthusiasm.

During my sophomore year of college, Mr. Rogers became ill. I was able to visit him during spring break. Sitting on the edge of his bed clad in pajamas, and science magazines strewn about his bare feet, his last words to me as I was leaving, was, “Mark my word Johnny. Mankind will someday find an easy way to harness the power of the oceans, and it will be done right”.  Curt Rogers died. I never saw him again.

Summer Jobs – The Oak Wilt Program

The Oak Wilt Program of WV was initiated several years before I graduated from Logan High School in 1960. Government money had been allotted to kill infected trees by ground crews in southern WV. These crews, which were made up of high school and college students, teachers, and unemployed coal miners, processed the infected oak trees according to guidelines laid down by the WV Dept. of Agriculture.

Dead leaves of the diseased trees allowed spotters in piper cub airplanes to locate the trees, toss a roll of toilet paper in their crowns, and mark the location on maps. A crew would take the spotter’s information and find the diseased tree. After processing it, an 8″x 8″ section was cut from the tree and sent to the state lab in Charleston, WV.

Our supervisor, Tom Prester, was a short raspy-voiced principal of Oak Hill High School. He had brought along one of his teachers, Bill Priest. Tom wasn’t very friendly and smoked excessively. Mistakes were not popular with him at all.

After a week’s training with an experienced crew member, Emmett Abdoney and I were sent to an area where a spotted tree had been marked on the slope above the Craddock Branch Road near Lake, WV. We rode with another crew working in the same watershed. Not being very adept with a topographic map, it took longer than usual to locate the tree with toilet paper in its top. Concerned with the time element, we immediately began to process the tree, hoping to be out of the woods in time to catch our ride back to Logan.

Upon arrival at the office, Mr. Prester said, “Since this is your first trip alone, let’s see what you two have done.” Removing the tree form and trail sketch from our knapsack, he began scanning the material and after a few seconds, looking at me over glasses that rested o the end of his nose, he said in his raspy monotone voice, “This will do, but it definitely needs a lot of improvement.” Continuing, he asked, “Did someone say you were going to WVU to be a forester?”

“Yes sir.” I answered nervously. “I will enroll this coming fall.”

“Your handwriting and neatness had better improve or you will have big-time problems at Morgantown.” He said while reaching for the sample we had cut from the processed tree.

Turning the chunk of wood in his hands, he looked at me over his low-lying glasses with total disbelief.

“This wood ain’t oak! What in the world did you two people do? Don’t you know what an oak tree looks like? Did you look at the leaves?”

Continuing, “Man oh Man! this wood looks like hickory.”

Turning to Bill Priest, “Bill, go with these two in the morning and see what in the world they have done.”

Laying the sample on his desk, he continued his monotone murmuring, “A forester! And don’t even know an oak tree from a hickory. Lord, help us.”

Mother could tell something was wrong when I got home. She didn’t say anything until I just sat there staring at my food at the kitchen table. With deep concern in her voice, she said, “Honey, something is wrong. Want to tell mom about it? It’s your job, isn’t it?”

Nodding my head, I answered, “Mom, I’ll probably be fired tomorrow. I made a pretty big mistake. My boss is real upset.”

I proceeded to tell her what happened. And how I dreaded going back to see what kind of tree we had girdled.

Getting up from the table and taking my dishes to the sink, I turned and said with a shaky voice, “Mom, if I lose this job, I won’t be able to go to school. You and I know that the loan won’t cover everything.”

Like so many times before, she put her arm around my shoulder and said, “Johnny, too many good people have been involved in your college plans, for them to end now. Jesus said somewhere in the Bible that He would never leave us. I believe that, and it will be okay tomorrow because He isn’t going to leave you.”

My worry left immediately. No matter what happened, I just knew everything was going to be okay.

The next day, Emmett and I went with Bill Priest to investigate the species of the tree in question. Our paint trail followed an extremely steep south face slope matted with greenbrier. Emmett and I had discussed a plan of walking real fast up the slope toward the tree, hoping Bill, who was middle-aged, would become too exhausted to reach the tree. This didn’t work. He was actually in better condition than we were.

Bill confirmed the suspicion of Mr. Prester. The tree was a hickory. When we got back to the office, a man dressed in khakis was talking with Tom. He was a big man and talked with a lisp. As we stepped into the doorway, he turned and said, “Well. Well. So these are the two hickory girdlers.” Chuckling, as he turned back to Mr. Prester, “The boys in Charleston will get a kick out of this. Still smiling, he asked, “Johnny, what happened?”

I explained how we had difficulty locating the tree. How we rushed through the processing in order to catch our ride back to the office. I assumed it was oak wilt, what with the toilet paper in the tree. Pausing, “I made a mistake and I am sorry.”

With a slight lisp in an understanding voice, the big man said, “Son, we all make mistakes, but the big thing is to learn from them and try not to do it again. And by the way, our airplane spotters have been known to mark a few trees with toilet paper that didn’t have oak wilt.”

Rising from his chair, he said, “I gotta go, Tom. Be patient with these fellows. I believe they will do just fine.”

After he left, Mr. Prester said, “That was Bill Gillespie. He is assistant to the Commissioner of Agriculture for the state of WV. He is a good man.” Continuing, “You boys could have been fired. Today is your lucky day. So try to do better.”

Lighting up a cigarette, he said, You all go on home and be back here bright and early in the morning.”

My map reading ability improved to the point that I was made a crew chief. Emmett and I worked together occasionally. He was an upcoming senior at LHS and was fun to be around. His family was well thought of in Logan, and he had a beautiful sister who was attending WVU. Emmett eventually graduated from WVU Law School and became a successful attorney. The summer zipped by and I received an occasional “good job” from Mr. Prester. At the end of the last day of work, Tom Prester called me into his office. With a hint of sadness in his raspy voice, he said, “Johnny, you’ve come a long way since the hickory girdling episode. I have been well pleased with your work. If I can ever help you in any way, let me know.” Shaking my hand, he added, “Good luck and God bless.”