Hometown History

Over the years, I’ve moved several times.  Each time I relocate, I ask long-time residents if they know the history behind their communities.  Why did people choose to settle here?  What  makes this place significant?  Why do you choose to live here (other than the elemental reasons of “work” or “I was born/raised here”)?

Netherland Inn, Kingsport, TN

Surprisingly, most people have no idea why a community sprang up.  I grew up knowing that Kingsport, Tennessee was literally “Kings Port.”  William King owned the saltworks in Saltville, VA.  Both were strategic sites for the settlement of the pioneer territories and during the Civil War.  Salt, you see, is necessary for the preservation of food.  Without refrigeration, settlers required salt.  For that matter, when push comes to shove, salt is currency.  In fact, “salt” is the root of “salary.”  Your worth is measured by salt. 

So, as William King got rich off of the salt boiled down from the ponds in Saltville, he needed a way to get it delivered to customers in the west.  Saltville sat along the North Fork of the Holston River.  So, King began shipping the salt down river to Kingsport where the North Fork merged with the Middle and South forks.  From there, the Holston filtered into the Tennessee River and later on, into the Mississippi.  Kingsport was therefore critical for shipping.  Even more, Kingsport tied into the Wilderness Road which ran along the bank of the river.  The most historic site in the city is the Netherland Inn, where travelers would rest before the next leg of their journey. 

Those were the early days of Kingsport.

The rivers played a critical role, once more, in the industrial days of the city.  As Eastman and Mead sought to establish chemical and paper companies, they needed the cooling waters of the river to maintain their equipment.  Today, Eastman has shifted significantly, but it still continues as the main employer for the city. 

Church Circle

It was during those industrial days that Kingsport leaders decided that it should become the “Model City,” oriented around a central hub still called “Church Circle.”  The life of the rest of the city would radiate out of that hub.  While cool in theory, the practice yielded a lot of confusing triangle intersections, but that’s another story.

Super Glue

So, I know the origins of my hometown.  But I didn’t know the story of Mr. Harry Coover until Sunday.  Lo and behold, Kingsport is the site and origin of Super Glue.  Turns out an industrial accident gave way to the common glue that has changed the way the world does adhesives. 

Chillbumps run across my arms when I think about the fact that this man who has impacted so many people walked the streets of my city.  He will be buried by the same funeral home that tended my grandparents and many of my other relations. 

So thanks, Mr. Coover.  Thanks, Mr. King.  Wonder what other heroes I’ll stumble upon next?

The Ants & the Grasshopper

Since Ash Wednesday, we’ve focused on the Seven Deadly Sins in worship.  This week’s sin is “Sloth” which is really a word that’s been lost to our vernacular.  Basically, sloth is the Sin of Not Caring.  Scripture addresses Sloth several times, but modern translations call it Laziness.  Again and again, the holy texts illustrate the matter by contrasting the ants and the grasshopper (Proverbs 6: 6-11).  In this light, Sloth begins to take on a twinge of self-importance and pride, too.  It maybe even highlights the expectation our culture has that all deserve Social Security after a certain age, whether or not we’ve worked to support others by funding it.

When I think on these things, I remember my childhood love for Walt Disney’s Silly Symphony.  Funny thing is, I kept thinking I’d forgotten the remaining lines in the song the Grasshopper sings.  Fact of the matter:  the grasshopper only bothers to sing one line.

A song to sing

A dear friend of mine has just learned that she will defend her dissertation this Spring.  It’s been a long journey, but the benefits have been profound.  Part of her study involved literacy memories.  Her questions provoked my thought processes on earliest memories of reading and storytelling. 

Honestly, I don’t ever remember a time when I didn’t read or tell stories.  Granted memory from those youngest days are hazy, but I created memories of telling stories of moments I remembered as a wee one.  I always remember my father saying that he was going to “read [him]self into a stupor” as he put it.  Every night he and mom had books in hand.  Every night, they read to us as part of the bedtime ritual.  Every day, we read books, magazines, newspapers, bumper stickers, license plates, and signs on the byways.  Reading was woven into the fabric of whom I am still becoming even now.  Storytelling — we would beg to hear Noah’s ark and about the birth of the little baby Jesus — crisscrossed reading threads and the tapestry became stronger.  Singing became the next layer in the weaving.

As with reading and storytelling, I dont’ remember a time without song.  My mother was always singing.  Some of the songs I’ve already written about here.  Some were lullabies.  Some are songs I can only remember when she starts to chant through the lyrics and melody.  We were blessed with her sweet alto voice.  Particularly, I remember he singing “Lavendar’s Blue” an old English folk song.  When I found this clip of “Dilly, Dilly,”  I then remembered “Billy Boy.”  I think mother must have watched this Disney special.

Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, Lavender’s green
When you are king, dilly dilly, I shall be queen

Who told you so, dilly dilly, Who told you so?
‘Twas my own heart, dilly dilly, That told me so

Call up your friends, dilly, dilly Set them to work
Some to the plough, dilly dilly, Some to the fork

Some to the hay, dilly dilly, Some to thresh corn
Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, Keep ourselves warm

Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, Lavender’s green
When you are king, dilly dilly, I shall be queen

Who told you so, dilly dilly, Who told you so?
‘Twas my own heart, dilly dilly, That told me so.

Singin’ in the Rain, “You Are My Sunshine”

On this dark, dreary, rainy day, I had the honor of gathering to celebrate the birth of a woman in our community who is over 100 years old.  As friends and loved ones packed into the dining hall of her residence, one among us came to play the piano.  The musician broke out her books of sheet music, primarily pieces from the 1920s, 30s, and 40s.    Two choir members joined her and we sang “Singin’ in the Rain,” the theme song to The Mickey Mouse Club, and “Two for Tea.” 

As we sang, I realized that I knew the tunes, if not the lyrics, because my mother had sung them to us as children.  A Baby Boomer herself, I suppose her mother sang them to her.  “Clementine” and the woeful tune of a miner’s daughter drowned in the brine water.  “The Tennessee Waltz” and its sadness of love lost and betrayal.  The brightness and fun of “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” filled the air.

Then, we sang “You are My Sunshine.”  I remember that one dearly.  One day, we sat on the back porch of my grandparents home.  Paupaw sat in the center of the red-stained porch swing.  My sister and I sat on his sides.  He rocked and sang.  Years later, I wondered why he sang of such sadness and loss to two little granddaughters.

The year I learned to hate bumper cars

What was your first concert? 

The earliest memory I can draw up is of the Appalachian Fair.  Eddie Rabbit sang “I’m Driving My Life Away” and “I Love a Rainy Night.” 

That was when I learned to hate bumper cars.  It was even the last time I remember our family of four going to the fair.  Probably from all the trauma.  Mom and Dad had bought just so many tickets for the rides.  Ferris wheels were fabulous.  Carousels were comforting.  But we got to the end of the evening and there were only enough ticket left for two more people to ride one more ride. 

Rather than show preference for either me or my sister (2 years 5 months younger than I), our parents insisted we ride together without them.  Why we chose the bumper cars, I’ll never know.  We’d never ridden them before. 

I remember the sick feeling of drunken butterflies in my stomach.  You know what I mean.  The happy butterflies indicate good things are happening.  The drunken ones mean, “RUN!” 

We climbed into the red, shiny car.  (Is that why I still don’t like red cars?)  Our parents assured us, we could manage.  It all came to a screeching, banging halt — quite literally — when my sister’s face connected with the steering wheel and blood went gushing from her mouth.  I still feel nauseated at bumper cars.

After that, I don’t really remember a concert.  Until sometime in college.  Maybe it was our Junior year.  The college brought a regional band called “The Connells.”  My roommate and I designed the T-shirt.  A good friend of our loved them.  But then, he’d grown up near their home base and had heard them a few times.  Honestly, I don’t even remember a song.

The first concert I really have vivid memories of came from my Atlanta days.  Music Midtown.  My friend J and hopped the Marta line from Inman Park (the earliest suburb of Atlanta — quite cool architecture!).  J knew what she was doing.  I had the drunken butterflies on Marta; the happy ones when we arrived in Midtown; the drunken ones again as we felt the crowds begin pressing in on us as we stood at the front of the open-air makeshift theatre. 

Paula Cole was opening for the Indigo Girls — our favorites.  It’s when I became a fan of Paula’s.  Most people remember her for the theme song for “Dawson’s Creek” — “I Don’t Want to Wait.”  But I loved “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone.”  Her lyricism and range, artistry and movement were entrancing.   Her sass inspired me.

Later in the night, the Indigo Girls came on.  We sang along to “Galileo,” of course.  It was the first time I heard a song called “Scooter Boys.”  I remember my friend and I got into a debate over that one.  Over those years of grad school, I’d hear the Girls a few times.  I’ve seen them once since.  There’s something about a live experience of those ladies that is very special. 

But, I’ll tell you what.  Though I love hearing Emily and Amy live, I’d rather listen to Harry Connick, Jr. on a recording any day.  A group of us went to hear him at the Fox Theatre (which is an amazing space).  Being the poor grad students we were, we bought the cheapest tickets.  Sure enough, we climbed to the very top row.  Harry disappeared behind one of the joints of my thumb.  But it was still better than the time I learned to hate bumper cars.

Oh, and Harry never fails to make me smile.  Good antidote to the bumper cars.

Scooby Doo, Frog Prince, and an Innocent Man

What do a Great Dane, a muppet, and Bill Joel have in common?  Truth be told, not much, except maybe my childhood entertainment preferences.  Recently a girlfriend of mine began sharing her musical interests with her circle of friends on a daily basis.  Day 1 begins with your favorite piece from your first album, ever.

Got it.  Except there were three and I cannot remember when I got which one.  Maybe Scooby came first.  The vinyl LP told the Mystery of the Strange Paw Prints and a couple of others I can no longer recall.  You can own your very own copy for $49.98 from a used seller on amazon.  But, I bet Mom still has mine in storage.  Mostly, I remember the scritchy-scratch of the needle-on-plastic.  Oh, and the impression that being redheaded was far better than wearing glasses.  <sigh>

As for something that sticks in my memory banks, let’s listen to Kermit’s retelling of the classic tale “The Frog Prince.”  Jim Henson, of course, gave it his own magical spin.  A lovely princess Melora is under a spell.  The result:   confused speech.  (Remind anyone of Babel?)  She sings, “N’im Inteen.  N’im Inteen.  By mirthday’s ootay.”  Poor girl.  Sweetums plays the henchman of the evil “aunt” who wants to become <sigh> stepmother by marrying a doofy Daddy King.   Kermit coaxes along nephew Robin, the enchanted Frog Prince.  Eventually, the Brave little froggy figures out how to defeat Wicked Aunt Tamenela by “baking the hall in the candle of her brain.”   ( Have I mentioned that I could write a thesis on how this mythical tale helped to control my little girl self’s development into a young woman who struggled to speak clearly in front of others?  <sigh>  It makes me wonder if little boys’ stories control them, too.)  Still, I love Henson’s depiction and remember fondly listening to the LP.  Maybe it was all about Kermie.

That carries me to my first-entirely-composed-of-music  album.  In 1983, Billy Joel crooned about “An Innocent Man.”  Ten years old, I swooned at that voice.  It was long before heartbreak and betrayal came my way.  Speaking of…  I continue to be bumfuzzled by the way people — especially other women — blame women for failed relationships.  (Oh, you didn’t know it was my fault?  And that I was asking for it?  Sounds like the accusations hurled at survivors of rape to me.)  We females always seem to be told we’re at the root of every evil.   <SIGH>  Before I start down a path of  a brewing war on women, I’ll go…

Back to Billy.  What a voice.  What lyrics.   Sing to me, baby.  Even with your hair gone and greyed.

In retrospect, maybe our first musical and entertainment interests have a great deal of power.  In a real sense, the brainy brunette with glasses who struggled with self-esteem,  who wrestled for the ability to tell her story which one day involved more than her share of heartaches from which she needed healing, all came true in yours truly. 

On the other hand, I’ve grown to be the woman who walks in confidence whether or not there are greys, thick specs, or wide hips.  I’ve become the lady who doesn’t require a man to straighten out my speech for me, much less to rescue me.  I’ve become the sister who stands strong in spite of sorrows. 

Which bring me back to Babel.  In this stream-of-consciousness reflection, I see that, ultimately, we humans make choices about everything from music to the-really-big-life-altering-stuff.  The people at the Tower wanted to be like God.  They chose their paths.  At Eden, not only Eve but also Adam chose to bite into the apple.  Well, so could I. 

But you know what?   I choose not to be defined by wicked “aunties” who put on cloaks of concern and facades of friendship and turn around to stab others in the back with their babbling gossip.   I choose to be who I will be.  And, well,  I choose to celebrate the songs that shaped me along the way.