Parts of this section are a repeat after a long hiatus.

Memoirs of a Young Wanderer

The Copperhill Gang

Tennessee, the views from the high mountain peaks, and the woods just across the back pasture with all its mysterious trails and glades kept calling — memories of childhood, constantly rumbling, kept calling.

The electric streetcars moved consistently through this scene providing colorful and reliable transportation for those who were shopping North and South along Woodward Ave. For those moving Westward along Grand River (major east-west street) there were the electric trolleys. And for the wealthy ladies — chauffeur driven Cadillacs and Lincolns.

Now on top of all this came my introduction to the Copperhill Gang. Lou was from the Copperhill/Ducktown part of Tennessee, so it was natural for others from Copperhill to look him up when they arrived in town. As a result I gradually became connected with the small community of Copperhill people of my age and often spent the evening at one of the favorite hangouts, a corner drugstore, having some refreshment, just talking, or perhaps planning a weekend foray down to Toledo where another group of Tennessee economic refugees had established a colony. I don’t think I will ever forget the boys: Skip, Ted, Ken, and Dale. I still see their faces and body image clearly. I would recognize them anywhere should I ever be so fortunate as to meet them again — somewhere in my rambles. Of course, a lifetime of troubling people makes them unforgettable to me.

Toledo

I recall one weekend Ted and I decided to motor down and touch base with some of his friends in the extended Copperhill Group. Now, Ted liked to drink a bit. Not much but some. So, since I never drank anything stronger than a Coke, he planned for me to drive and he bought a six pack to enjoy on the drive. On the way down I had the misfortune to get stopped by the state police for going a little over the speed limit. (I’ve always had a little problem with speed.) Although a minor infraction, I thought. However, my anxiety level did jump considerably when the cop walked up to the door and invited me to step out. It just so happened that I had stopped on a slight embankment which tilted the car toward the driver’s side and when I opened my door to step out, Ted’s beer cans began rolling out: clunk, clunk, clunk. Each one shouting “look at me, this guy is drinking.” The cop did take the announcement seriously and very patiently interviewed us to get at the truth of my story which was: The beer belonged to Ted and I never touched the stuff. Of course I passed every test he presented and when he had satisfied himself that I was not a threat to the motoring public he sent us on our way with the stern admonition that speed limits were posted for a reason. However, I got the impression that southerners were regarded as refugees from a foreign country that needed to be treated with tolerance and understanding as though they could be educated enough to become members of a more enlightened society. Another lesson learned regarding the value of staying within the law, and mastering the mores and folkways of the indigenous population. But some other people never learn. I did learn well enough to stay out of trouble. Thanks to my rather stern upbringing back in the hills — of East Tennessee.

While in Toledo we joined forces with some of Ted’s relatives and friends and decided to explore some of their favorite hangouts in the surrounding areas of the city where people went to enjoy the weekend. This led to another little brush with the law. We went to one of their hangouts where people shoot pool, talk, and drink a little. After about an hour it was getting late and I wanted to head back to Detroit. So we loaded up and took off. In just a few minutes we were stopped by a cruiser. I’ve forgotten the nature of the infraction (someone had stolen something) but we had to follow the cop back to the party place for questioning and identification. False alarm — we were not the guilty parties and were allowed to go our way. Events such as this always produced a little anxiety. I never found the Copperhill Gang guilty of any legal infraction. They had grown up in a part of Tennessee where the legal authorities were very intolerant and thus were acutely sensitive to the letter of the law — except for drinking a little too much alcohol at times. I remember once they got Skip drunk while visiting Copperhill and put him in the car and when he woke up he was back in Detroit. Skip just cleaned up and started hitchhiking back to Tennessee. I thought that was pretty funny. Further, Skip held no hard feelings. He would have done the same thing for one of his friends.

A Little More About Copperhill

During one of the elections for sheriff there sometime after WWII, quite a large number of people were killed in a shootout over political disputes. These people seemed to take their politics a little too seriously. The shootout took place in a beer joint — guns and alcohol. No, guns, alcohol, and politics. Just alcohol — no volatile mix. Correction: just no volatile mix.

More About Copperhill/Ducktown: Geography

The Ocoee Gorge

Approaching the Copperhill/Ducktown area along the Ocoee River from Cleveland, Tennessee, my attention at first was drawn to the beauty of the Ocoee River Gorge and the thick forest that filled the entire Gorge. The river had been dammed by TVA in the lower reaches producing a beautiful lake which served varied recreational purposes. One of the interesting features of the drive up the Ocoee Gorge was what looked like a large wooden structure snaking around the mountain a couple of hundred feet above the river. I discovered that TVA had built this wooden structure as a flume to carry water down the gorge to a point 200 to 300 feet above the power plant where the water would be dropped straight down the mountain to spin the turbines and generate electricity. A neat idea I thought.

As we proceeded up the gorge I noticed that the trees began to diminish in height and fullness. Cecil pointed out that it would get worse, and it did. Farther up the vegetation disappeared altogether. Now we were looking at a barren desert. That was absolutely astounding. There wasn’t even a blade of grass to be seen. Yet there were houses, and service stations, and roads, and people and traffic. This really caught my attention. Then I realized they had not prepared me for this view of the Copper Basin because they wanted to see my reaction as the drama unfolded. Then they explained: this was the result of the copper mining industry there in the basin. Apparently the fumes from the mining/smelting killed the plant life throughout the area. Many people told me it affected the people living there the same way. They looked sick. Probably it did shorten the life span, but I would have to research that point to make any valid statement in that regard.

Ducktown

First View of Ducktown, TN

The brain rattling experience wasn’t over. My impression the first time I pulled up to a stop sign at the Ducktown/Copperhill intersection: I looked to my left and saw Ducktown. I thought I was witnessing a scene from a horror movie. All the houses were a slightly faded black color of lapboard siding. They looked so desolate and so forlorn. It was like looking at the entrance to a ghost town. But then we turned left to enter the town and the scene gradually changed. We made a sharp right turn and started up a rather steep hill and I saw a rather large number of cars moving about. They were entering and leaving a large grocery store at the heart of the town. The remarkable thing was the contrast in the color of the town and the color of the cars. They all appeared to be new or relatively new Fords, Chevrolets, etc. — altogether a very colorful contrast with the surroundings. Further, I recall the parking lot was filled with a lot of people pushing carts, talking, seemingly enjoying life in what looked to me to be a rather depressing environment. But the shock had not had time to wear off.

As I became used to this island of faded black houses, and I got to know the people, I could understand their attitudes and approach to life — acceptance of the situation they lived in. They made good money working in the copper mines. And once outside the basin itself, the vegetation returned to normal or near normal, and life went on. I wonder how pollution from the smelter affected the health of the residents.

I never got that image out of my mind. Where am I, I thought. But then my friend Cecil was with me and he seemed comfortable with the situation. So I just coursed through the scene. But I’ve forgotten.

The basin was different in other ways as well. There were a lot of beer joints and drinking was a way of life. Of course the mining industry was not so large that all the new high school graduates could find work here in the basin so every year there was an exodus as new graduates, or those who had finally lost hope, moved out into different parts of the country to find work — hence the reason I met them in Detroit.

Religion there in the basin was a little different from what I was used to. I didn’t attend any religious services while here, but I did gain some insight from my friends. Apparently there was a tendency toward more dramatic forms of worship which included snake handling. This of course was the purview of the more insular citizens of the basin. The guys I associated with were not involved in this way, although certain of their family members were. I found the people of this valley to be very accepting and genuinely friendly toward me. I have never forgotten them. How could I have lived long enough to have dropped them so completely? Fear of close emotional ties? My life just took a different path — the Rambler. Does that.

The Town of Copperhill

My impression of Copperhill — especially Saturday traffic on mainstreet. In those days, Copperhill was (from my point of view) a delightful and attractive small southern town on the banks of the Ocoee River. A short walk across the bridge and you would be in McCaysville, GA.

The shops along mainstreet always seemed to me to do a thriving business. The sidewalks were filled with the beautiful people of this area dressed in bright stylish colors and the streets in those days were filled with the colorful new cars produced by Detroit in the 1950s. Having a healthy surplus of cash in those days I enjoyed visiting main street and having my car serviced while I got a haircut and enjoyed the sights and sounds of the place with my friends.

Economic cycles are clearly illustrated by the Copperhill experience. The time came when I would drive through there and it looked like a ghost town. No service station, no shops open, perhaps a run-down, one-man gas station. Today, based upon recreational uses of the Ocoee River — especially for Kayaking — it appears that a new economic community is developing at the intersection of the Ocoee River Road and the Ducktown/Copperhill Road.

I will continue to watch this development for old times’ sake. I have heard that a couple of my old friends here have died. I suspect the ones I haven’t heard about may have joined them. They were my age, but they lived hard!!!

Northeaster Over: The Hiawassee Incident!!!

Ignorance plays such a large role in creating deadly danger. I seldom encountered many precarious events in my rambles that didn’t present me with several viable alternatives for extricating myself from the threat involved. Consequently, I never had any lingering anxiety that I didn’t shake off easily. However, the potential event at Hiawassee Dam has stuck in mind and always produces a shudder and a sense of dread when I think about it. The reason, I believe, is the fact that I was ignorant of the danger and the second reason is: if that potential danger had materialized, there was nothing I could have done to counter it. Water has great weight and moving water presents an awesome force that a swimmer cannot overcome.

My friends and I visited the Hiawassee dam one day and while there decided to go for a swim — right behind the dam where the water was the deepest. I was very confident of my swimming ability and enjoyed the refreshing experience. However, after I had climbed out of the water and heaved myself up the bank and dressed, I noticed a large intake valve in the dam near where we had just been swimming. So I asked about the valve, and was told that the intake was operated remotely and you could never tell when it would open. Whether or not this was factual, I do not know. But it bothers me still that I was not more observant in evaluating the swimming environment on that visit to Hiawassee Dam. I think that makes me a little more observant and questioning than I otherwise might be. Of course, some people might say it just made me more neurotic.

Neurotic or not — it made me more observant.

The Copper Basin Today

The Economy Turns

All of these Detroit experiences came together to create a delightfully vivid and exciting fantasy land in my mind. But, it was not going to last long. In the lingering days of winter Detroit’s economy, along with other parts of the nation, took a turn for the worse.

Lou, Eleanor’s husband, lost his job at Dodge. Cecil lost his job. Skip lost his job as crane operator, and so did thousands of others. My job looked solid, but I had been around Detroit long enough and needed a little time in Copperhill where I had met a girl that I kind of liked.

So I agreed to tow a trailer to Copperhill for Cecil and his family. The plan was to hang out there for a few days then go on to Atlanta — economic hard times. Watching people leave Detroit was an amazing sight. Mile after mile of little cars towing little yellow U-Haul trailers all heading south. It looked like a major migration of some strange species. I will never get the scene out of my mind. Of course such a movement as this represents a lot of broken dreams and human misery — broken dreams. Not only for the people experiencing economic upheaval, but also for those people who will have to move over, crowd up and make room for returning family members. On the other hand, it provided a good excuse for going home and moving in with relatives. After all, they had tried. The economy just turned against them.

That would not be my lot. I had saved my money and I was not going back home. There was more of the world to see and I had miles to go.

Skipped school on this round (College).

Trip 3

Atlanta: Here I Come

Well, after a little layover in Ducktown, with Cecil’s in-law — he and I headed on down the highway to Atlanta — only 100 miles away. Cecil had no problem getting a job as a long haul trucker. This was not a job he liked, but it was a job. We found a room in the south end of Atlanta near the Trucking terminal for ten dollars a week — an easy payment for me since I was the only one with money until his paychecks started coming in. This meant we had a bathroom and shower. I found a little restaurant near the room where I could hang out and eat. This is where I first heard Elvis Presley’s first two songs: “Hound Dog” and “Heartbreak Hotel” — right across the street from the Truck terminal that Cecil drove out of.

My first stop after locating a room was the employment office downtown. The jobs available all seemed interesting and even exciting. Nothing dull like the ones I had to take in East Tennessee. The first job I interviewed for was cabinet making. This was something I had some experience with since I had worked with my grandfather in his cabinet making business. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had taken another job such as ornamental welding — for instance. I might have worked that into a business of my own and stayed in Atlanta. But a successful welding business might have precluded my dreams of a college degree. How could I dream of a degree while doing everything to avoid college?

Cecil began using his days off the road looking for a house to rent so he could bring his family to the city. Finding a house was not hard to do, but he wanted me to pitch in and pay part of the rent and live there to help out with expenses. With no real objections I went along with the plan for a while. However, I was not as settled as he was. Then one day I bumped into one of the old unmarried members of the Copperhill Gang who had also migrated to Atlanta. He turned out to be in touch with two more members of the group and we began meeting and the talk soon turned to thoughts of the open road — and Texas.

Returning to school seemed to fade into the background.

I had a good reliable car that I bought while working in Detroit. That car was going to take us to Texas.

Trip 4

New Trip: Creede, The Sawmill

In those days it didn’t take long for us to make up our minds and then act on our imaginations. We made the decision to collect our respective weekly paychecks and then head west. The group included Ted, Ken, and two other guys whose names escape me at the moment. Soon we were headed west laughing, talking and listening to one of the guys’ rendition of “Wildwood Flower.” I think that was the only song he could play.

I don’t know about the others but my goodbyes were brief. I gave Cecil a little money to help him over a hump, then I hit the road. I always had money. I saved like an Israelite planning for a seven-year famine — but I would share a little when it was needed. I learned early to never expect a loan to be repaid.

Smooth Sailing, Car Trouble, and Creede Big Rats

With so many drivers we kept the little Ford moving and slept while others drove. One of the most memorable events about this trip occurred late one night when we stopped to eat at a little drive-in dump in one of the big Texas cities, Dallas maybe, and as we ate the rats came out to play. Man!! They were huge. I never dreamed rats could get so big. I thought they rivaled the hogs we used to raise at Valley Forge. They were so large I thought they could be a threat to anyone who dared get out of the car. So, after brief consultation, we decided to move on. I wouldn’t even attempt a walk across the lot to the restroom.

Let me back up just a bit here. Just after entering Texas, actually we were entering a little town east of Dallas called Mt. Pleasant. The Little Ford was humming along just perfectly. We came down a little hill then started up a little rise in the road. I was driving and as I accelerated to climb the hill the engine revved but no power went to the rear wheels. Puzzled thoughts flew by.

Uh Oh, Big Problem! Automotive Breakdown

The diagnosis: broken rear axle.

Of all the good fortune, I could not believe it. We had just passed a large junk yard. So, we hiked back down the road — a five-minute walk — and explained our predicament to the junkyard owner, who proceeded to show us a car of the same vintage as mine. He made me a price, I paid. And he brought his tractor over, put a cable on the car and rolled it over on its side. We unbolted the entire rear differential, and he hauled it over to our car which we had coasted under the overhang of an old service station. All told, it probably cost us a good day’s work — and something.