I've often heard it said that everybody has a story to tell, and I know this is true, but I have found also that we all have a yearning to tell our story. Also, we have numerous ways to do it: through voice, writing instruments and machines, through photographic and digital images that we make or assemble, and also through the pattern of our living, and in the things that we create. Truman Fields is a many-faceted person, and he has left plenty of evidence of his interesting story to supplement what he tells us in this book. He has been a persistent student, teacher and craftsman, a successful businessman, and an award-winning tennis player, a superb craftsman, and a public servant. He was born in the center of the Appalachian coal fields, where he attended local schools until his father, perceived that Truman had a desire to learn more than might be possible locally, sent his reluctant son to Berea Foundation High School at the age of sixteen. There, in addition to the usual academic subjects, he began probing the complexities of electronics, metal-and-wood, and of course basketball and tennis. Without money, he was a half-day student, meaning he took classes for half the day and worked in the rest of the day for his room and board. Thus it would have taken him five years to complete high school, so ever restless and inquisitive, he decided at the age of twenty, to join the Navy for four years. The Navy sent him to electronic school before assigning him to a destroyer tender. On this ship, he saw a great deal of the world. At age 24, he re-entered the Foundation School for a semester to finish high school, and then enrolled at Berea College. There he majored in Industrial Arts and played tennis so well that he was a finalist in several tournaments. In college, he met Joyce Barnes from Tennessee, and they were married. After graduation Truman taught in Louisville and then moved to Cleveland, Ohio, where he and Joy

In The Heart of Appalachia

Remembering the 40'sBy Truman Fields

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Truman Fields
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-9782-7

Contents

Chapter One Mr. John D Oliver: More Than a Teacher.......................1Chapter Two The Chicken Shoot............................................21Chapter Three Fighting Little David......................................38Chapter Four Badman Of The Mountains.....................................66Chapter Five The Spelling Bee With No Sting..............................75Chapter Six Unwanted Guests..............................................86Chapter Seven The Flamethrower...........................................91Chapter Eight Tradition, Tradition.......................................99Chapter Nine The New County Agent........................................107Chapter 10 Mountain Day..................................................114Chapter 11 Strip Mining Comes To Big Creek...............................121Chapter 12 This Land Is My Land..........................................132Chapter 13 Dirty Coal....................................................139Chapter 14 Topping The Mountain..........................................146Chapter 15 Gimmie That Old Time Religion.................................151Chapter 16 The Holy Rollers..............................................159Chapter 17 The Chicken Czar Of Perry County..............................191Chapter 18 Community Memorial Day........................................199Chapter 19 Uncle Dock And The Civil War..................................208Chapter 20 Kentucky Violence.............................................211Chapter 21 More About Martin Van Buren Bates.............................219Chapter 22 He Died For His Country.......................................225Chapter 23 Level Playing Field...........................................230Chapter 24 Combs High School.............................................244Chapter 25 Politics: How Sweet It Is.....................................249Chapter 26 Mr. Robertson, Harry Truman And Tom Dewey.....................258Chapter 27 Gambling With Mad Maggie And The Truckers.....................275Chapter 28 Basketball: Anyone, Any Time, Any Place.......................281Chapter 29 True Blue Kentucky Basketball Spirit..........................289Chapter 30 Railroad Raleigh..............................................311Chapter 31 Berea Or Utopia...............................................320Chapter 32 The King's English............................................327

Chapter One

The highest function of the teacher consists not so much in imparting knowledge as in stimulating the pupil in its love and pursuit. To know how to suggest is the art of teaching. Amiel

Mr. John D Oliver: More Than a Teacher

John D. Oliver had only one rule for discipline at Whitaker Elementary School. This was different from what we were accustomed to. How could this new teacher run a school with only a single rule? All the teachers before this strange man had long lists of rules and regulations for the students to obey. Some had the blackboard covered with written rules; others underlined the most important ones. One new teacher, no longer with us, had a full page of mimeographed regulations that he passed out to all the students. The idea of having to obey only a single rule was, to say the least, ridiculous, for us rambunctious students at Whitaker Elementary School.

The single-rule-only business meant one thing to us. It meant that Mr. Oliver would be easy and that he was just another pushover. Chances were the new teacher would last only a few short days before we helped push him into early retirement or some place up north. That sort of thing had happened several times in our educational experience there on the rough edge of Perry County located in the very heart of Appalachia. The little one room elementary schoolhouse educated students from the Primer through the eighth grade. From all indications, that seventh-grade year would be a blue chipper. Who says school can't be fun? One rule meant many loopholes; we could get away with nearly anything we wanted to. We wanted to get away with a truck load of foul behavior. He thinks he's a teacher? We'll just show him, was the reasoning of several roughneck boys, and some girls.

The tall, well-built, middle-aged man who seemed to be married to integrity wore a suit, a white shirt, and a tie every day. His posture was as rigid as a cigar-store Indian. He started our school day with a short prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance. Sometimes we sang "My Old Kentucky Home" or the national anthem. He loved singing. The man was different; he possessed an air of reserve, and he seemed to have cultivated a pose of aloofness. There was a whisper of elegance that went along with a no-nonsense attitude; something else we weren't accustomed to. Just before the ten o'clock recess, on the first day of school, Mr. Oliver wrote his single Golden Rule on the blackboard. This was the one and only regulation we were to obey.

"At all times you will conduct yourself as a lady or as a gentleman." Was that it? Could it be only one rule, one short sentence? The entire situation seemed ridiculous. Citizenship had always been an Olympic pain for me and several other students. This simple, short sentence could easily be worked with. There may be possibilities yet for schooling, I thought. I may even learn to like this new instructor. However, I never possessed much love for books, rules, any form of discipline, or teachers. It looked, for sure, like the seventh grade would be a blue chipper.

We asked the teacher to explain the rule. We wanted to know why there was only one regulation for everyone. Most of us wanted to know how this could be interpreted. We needed to understand the consequences of breaking the Golden Rule. Mr. Oliver told us that we were responsible for realizing what a lady or a gentleman was. His responsibility was to render the necessary discipline to rectify any and all wrongdoing.

We all agreed that he talked strangely. His explanation was too limited and not clear at all. He was so stiff, and he held his head up so high that he gave the impression that the sun came up earlier for him than it did for anyone else. We reckoned the man had about as much charisma as a root canal. He explained further that all disciplinary action would take place on Friday, the last part of the week. Disciplinary problems were to take up only a fraction of the academic process. Well, we would definitely show Mr. Oliver, most of us figured. Discipline had always been a long and happily drawn-out affair at Whitaker School. We planned to keep it that way, because some traditions are worth holding on to.

The first two days of the new school year saw us toeing the line. Most students were smart enough to behave and to respect the blind Golden Rule that had been handed down to us. I wasn't. On the second day of school Clay Couch and I were pitching pennies for keeps at a line drawn in the dirt during the noon lunch break. Mr. Oliver came by and, without saying a word, walked right on past us down to the baseball game. We reckoned he just may be weak. The other infraction came Thursday morning when two roughneck eighth-grade boys got into a fight while playing marbles. They were also gambling and playing for keeps. Mr. Oliver broke up the fight and said nothing at all about the noisy brawl. Strange, very strange, man!

After lunch on Thursday, we noticed four names written on the board in a small part of the right top corner. My name made the list. I was rather proud to see Mr. Truman Fields and Mr. Clay Couch on the board. The two eight grade roughneck fighters were also on the board. Two other names were written below those and lettered in a smaller, less-important-looking font. Everyone surmised that these were students who had done a little something wrong. Word had gotten out about the pennies and the fight. We were sure that the new teacher would tell us all to try and do a little better next week. No problem. We all would probably get by with a friendly little warning. The Oliver guy would be no dilemma for any of us.

Friday came, along with all fifty-four of the school's students. Everyone wanted to see just what kind of discipline would be rendered, if any. We had seen this scenario played out several times and the teacher often took the worst part of the deal. One teacher softly counseled and prayed with the wrong doers; it didn't work. The morning and early afternoon saw Mr. Oliver do nothing about the eight names that had been written on the board. Everyone knew that some of the roughneck eighth-grade boys might challenge the prim and proper new teacher who wore a clean white shirt every day. That was another tradition that Whitaker School held in high esteem. It was beginning to look as though all we would enjoy was a small warning at the end of the school week. This new man, with his air of excellence and pressed suits, would likely avoid any and all confrontations. Yeah, no problem here, we surmised.

At exactly fifteen minutes before school was to be excused for the weekend, the new teacher acted. John D. Oliver was paid extra money when he came to Whitaker Elementary School. Legends had crossed paths with Mr. Oliver, folks in the neighborhood still thought he could whip the notorious school into shape. But the rowdy students at the little one-room Appalachian school didn't want to see any big changes. They were set on showing the new teacher a thing or two. The teacher, however, felt the same. Change started when he slapped his right hand hard on his desk and ordered, "Court is now in session. Everyone will pay complete attention to these proceedings."

Our senses were overloaded. We all snapped to attention like new Marines in boot camp. No one knew exactly what he meant by the court-in-session orders. We wondered what was going on, or just what would go on in this kangaroo court. The weak little warning will come now, I figured. Everyone sat up and paid full attention. The new teacher was beginning to sound like a trumpet for justice.

"Mr. Bruce Kilbourn and Mr. Earl Lee Combs, approach the bench, please," ordered the self-appointed judge. We couldn't figure why he used the mister and please. Bruce and Earl, two of the biggest and roughest eighth-graders, looked at each other and did not move. It looked like our first showdown was ready to begin. I sure hoped so. Mr. Oliver stood up. He was acting stern and was in his best no-nonsense mood. He looked ready to do whatever was necessary in his courtroom to acquire justice. The judge pointed at the two accused and said, "Get up here this instant, or I'll' come for you!"

There was no question in his voice and manner. This teacher meant business. Bruce and Earl stood slowly and walked even more slowly up to the desk. Mr. Oliver eased back in his chair like a Philadelphia lawyer. He started a slow drumbeat with his fingers on the top of his big oak desk. "Now, both of you gentlemen are accused of fighting on school property." Neither student moved or said anything. The judge softly repeated his accusation and instructed the accused to plead either innocent or guilty. They looked at one another and finally pleaded guilty. That was a smart decision, as the new teacher had caught them red-handed in the process of fisticuffs. They had broken the only rule that had been handed us; they had broken the Golden Rule. Now they had to pay the penalty, if there was going to be a penalty.

Next came the precise moment we had all been waiting for. Just what would Mr. Oliver, the judge, the jury, the possible executioner, do? Would he execute, or would he wimp out? Both students admitted that they hadn't conducted themselves as gentlemen, and everyone knew they were guilty as sin. Earl looked scared; Bruce didn't. He had been in fights since he was in the second grade. He liked fighting. Bruce, who insisted on being called "Boomer", because it sounded rougher, would fly off the handle and start fights with anyone.

He had fought with girls and boys since the first grade. Twice he had challenged a grown man. Both times the men involved had walked away, saying, "He's just a boy." The men were smart to walk away. Boomer didn't scare easily; he wasn't scared one bit and was as dangerous as a bayonet. He could kill the average mule with his fists and looked like a welder had put him together. Trouble suited him fine. The judge looked calm, trouble didn't seem to bother him either. He appeared to be in complete control.

"What you must learn in life is to be more of a gentleman. Fighting is the way dogs settle their troubles. We must be slow to anger. Slow to anger is the answer. It's in the good book," the judge counseled the two rule breakers. "Your sentence will be one swat across the buttocks."

Earl was seriously worried. He began to move a little, and his eyes opened wide. The judge had gotten his complete attention. Boomer, standing at eases, and half slumped over and leaning on the wall, looked like he didn't have a care in the world. His inner core was hard, and his demeanor was abrasive. He was a master of disaster on the playground. He could vacuum your confidence with a single glare. Boomer was no prince of kindness. He could not be flexible.

"You are both guilty, and your sentence will be one swat across the buttocks. One swat for each of you," the judge repeated. By this time, Earl was more than seriously worried. He began to move around and shake a little. For the first time, it appeared the judge had finally gotten Boomer's attention. The boy's eyes widened and he glared hard at the executioner. Earl, on the other hand, was all shook up, and everyone knew it.

Clay and I were also accused and waiting for our day in court, we were more than shook up. Clay whispered to me, asking what a buttock was. I confessed that I didn't know and told my penny-pitching buddy that I sure didn't want to be swatted on it, wherever and whatever it was.

The judge opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a long, black walnut paddle with Greek letters inscribed on it. We students looked at one another, wondering if we would see the actual use of this educational tool. It had Board of Education written on it. Every student anxiously wanted to see the guilty criminals whacked with the board. They particularly wanted to see Boomer hit with any thing, any time, by anybody. Mr. Oliver, tool in hand, got out of his chair and walked over to the two accused. He instructed them to assume the position: reach for your toes and wish for the best. He also told them to say, "Slow to anger" three times and "Thank you, sir," before they sat down.

Earl bent over and reached for his toes, and the board of education did its lesson. The loud, crisp sound assaulted our eardrums. Mouths dropped and the students were all in semi shock. Earl, red-faced and embarrassed, said, "Slow to anger," three times before he told the judge, "thank you, sir." Earl was excused, and he used both hands to rub his buttocks as he slowly slipped into his chair. Clay whispered, "That's not what my dad calls it."

Boomer watched the action and looked threatening. Every muscle in his strong and rigid body stood up and came to complete attention. Before the judge told him to bend over, Boomer held his finger up toward Mr. Oliver's face and told him that he wasn't "going to be hit with that damn boa ...!"

At that precise split-second, the teacher's neck rose up like a white column on a Southern mansion. He instantly dropped the wooden board. Before it hit the floor, both the judge's hands grabbed Boomer's outstretched arm. Mr. Oliver had acted instantly, quicker than anyone could comprehend. He jerked Boomer close and gave him two knees to the stomach, turned him around, hit him on the side of the head with a thunderous elbow, and gave him a karate chop on the back of the neck. All this action, which took less than two seconds, had started before Boomer could get to the middle of the word board. Boomer fell across two students and their desks, crashing, unconscious, to the floor.

The classroom was noisy; gasps of astonishment mixed with expressions of disbelief. The instant shock was felt by every student. Some were moved to the point of standing up and covering their mouths with their hands. Morton Skidmore, a seventh-grader sitting in the front row near the action, jumped clean out of his seat. Many of the girls gave out loud gasps and hid their faces in their arms.

We couldn't possibly have been prepared for how quickly the boom had been lowered on Boomer. Mr. Oliver, an oasis of calm and poise, told everyone to please sit down, relax, and show a little bit of respect in the courtroom. His wire-rimmed glasses were perfectly in place. They never moved. We did exactly what we were told, without question or hesitation. The new teacher had rung our bells. The rough student, who could knock down a mule, had been knocked unconscious.

The judge calmly walked over to the drinking bucket, got a dipper of water, and threw it on Bruce's face. The clobbered sixteen-year-old came to, and Mr. Oliver gracefully helped the befuddled student up and steadied him on his feet. Bruce, stunned by the quick action, didn't look so good now; he seemed to be a little unsure of himself. His thick, black hair was messed up, and one scuffed up leather boot had come off during his graceless descent. Boomer no longer fit as a name; Brucie or Bernice would have sounded better.

The teacher helped steady the dazed student on his feet. Boomer was busted. His limp and slumped over frame needed help to straighten up. When asked if he were ready for his sentence, he said, "Huh?" The judge gently repeated the question. "Reckon I am," was Boomer's soft reply. He was still trying to figure out what had hit him. When he reached for his feet the good judge gave him a swift smack that could be heard all over the valley. He must have been saving up for the blast. Bruce jerked away abruptly and sat down without saying anything.

The judge ordered, "You will stand and say slow to anger three times, or I will come get you and give you two more swats." Bruce stood and grudgingly said, "Slow to anger," about a dozen times before he quietly said, "Thank you, sir," while looking at the floor. Our toughest horse had been broken. The judge said, "Thank you sir, and have a good life." Boomer growled weakly. He didn't realize he had lost a boot until the teacher gently handed the footwear and said, "Try to stay properly dressed while in the court room, Mr. Kilbourn, sir."

Justice had definitely been served in a quick and no-nonsense manner. The teacher had become the prince of peace. Both boys took their medicine and never shed a tear. Of course, Boomer had been mauled, but he was tougher than nails. Someone once said that he was so tough that he must have had leather diapers as a baby. Someone else said that he had cold water flowing in his veins; others, that he was weaned on icicles. He wasn't so tough now. There was no sign of ice; no leather, either.

(Continues...)

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