A Life's Story: A Portrait of Millions of Ordinary American Citizens As They Moved Through the Twentieth Century

By Tom Shipley

Thomas Shipley Presented with the Albert Nelson Marquis Lifetime Achievement Award 
by Marquis Who’s Who 
Thomas Shipley has been endorsed by Marquis Who’s Who as a leader in his industry 

Birmingham, Michigan, May 9, 2018—Marquis Who’s Who, the world’s premier publisher of bi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643458021

Tom Shipley

During my engineering days (1950 to 1965) with General Electric Company, writing about evolving technology and industrial-automation activities was extremely important. Those who could use and needed automation, didn't know anything about it, machinery equipped with the new systems was much more expensive, and labor unions in the manufacturing sector, quite strong in those days, were adamantly opposed to its use. For these reasons, the company gave engineers, not known to be effective communicators, formal instructions in a wide range of subjects, one of which was effective presentation (oral and written). We were taught writing skills, but the importance of knowing what we were writing or speaking about was emphasized. It was more important to know the subject - what we were writing or speaking about, and to write or speak with clarity -- than it was to have journalistic abilities: to be able to present the story in the very best manner. My objective in writing or speaking was generally to describe some automated phenomenon, improvement in a production cycle, or the production of a miraculous product that I had witnessed; and readers of the publications, extremely interested in the advances being made in automation and machining technology, read my stuff and that of others religiously. It was only necessary to write with clarity and to avoid “engineering-speak.” In the `80s and early `90s, small-computer technology was advancing rapidly, and machine manufacturers and users of the machines thirsted for information. I was engaged by a trade publication to inform readers about these advancements. The editor sought me out because of copious material I had written about computers and automated machines - using words and terms that were understandable to interested people who were not engineers or professionals in industry.

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It All Started in Kingsport, Tennessee

This is the story of an East Tennessee American of the twentieth century, starting with boyhood in the ’20s, schooling, service during World War II, college, industry, love, and marriage. It is one individual’s story, but it is representative of millions of other Americans of those times.

The kid waved to the grocery man, as he had on many occasions. The man waved back as he got out of his truck and went to the rear, selected some big bags, and walked away with them. He left the vehicle quivering and shaking on idle, as he did at every stop. The towheaded boy watched until the man disappeared around the corner of a house with his bulging pokes (paper bags, for the uninitiated) of groceries. The kid was about four years old, barefoot, and, like most boys of his age in the late 1920s, dressed in short pants and a short-sleeved shirt. As soon as the man was out of sight, the boy clambered into the truck driver’s seat, moved levers as he had seen the man do in the past, and the truck began to move slowly forward. Unfortunately (or fortunately, if you were rooting for the kid’s welfare), he had never been able to see the things the man did as he drove away. For this reason, he didn’t know the purpose of the big wheel directly in front of him, almost in his face. It wouldn’t have made much difference, however—he was too short to see above the dashboard. Also, he didn’t know what the man did to make the truck go faster, so the vehicle just ambled along in an uncertain line. First it moved slightly to the left and crossed the cinder-covered street and drifted onto a neighbor’s yard, then slowly turned, went up the street a bit, angled right, back across the street onto the Breese’s yard two houses up from the kid’s, then angled to the left and moved on, uncertainly, until finally it came to rest next door to the Breeses’ against the Spearses’ house. The kid remained in the driver’s seat as a small crowd gathered until someone finally plucked him out of the truck. He wasn’t hurt and not much damage had been done; the truck was just slightly damaged, and the house suffered only a little—a few bricks had been dislodged from its foundation.

That adventure was over. It occurred in about 1928 in Kingsport, Tennessee. The truck trip had originated in front of the Shipley house at 806 Forest Street and had ended nudged up against the Spearses’ house, three houses up and on the same side of the street. The young driver was Junior Shipley, later known as Tom. It was rumored that after ascertaining that her son was unharmed, his mother led the kid back home and administered capital punishment. The steps taken to repair damages to the truck and house will have to remain a mystery—all of the people involved, except for the rascally kid, are gone now. And his memory, around seventy-three years after the event, has failed him.

I was the rascally kid. The only grocery store I remember was the B&B Grocery on Bristol Highway (now Center Street) near Dale Street. I remember going there with my parents many times. The store was run by the Barnes family, and I suspect that it was their truck I boogered up—but I don’t know for sure. Emery Spears, whose house received the brunt of the incident, played with my brothers and me later on, so I guess my adventure didn’t lastingly affect our relationship with the Spears family.

I had two younger brothers, Jack and Beryl, aged three and two, respectively, at the time. And all three of us were inclined toward trouble of the type described, but generally not as drastic. A frequent neighborhood sight was one of the Shipley boys—barefoot, bare legged, and yelling lustily—one step ahead of his grandmother, Mrs. Lula Dykes, who was hurrying after him, armed with a willow switch and swinging away.

Our parents used to take us out to the country to visit Aunt Abey and Uncle Vol Curtis, who lived on a farm near our mother’s old home near Fall Branch, Tennessee—not far from Kingsport. To get there, we had to cross the old Long Island Bridge. If the car was going fast enough when we reached the end of the bridge, a sharp drop-off in the road beyond gave my brothers and me a sudden weightless sensation that was exhilarating. Always, as we approached the bridge, we urged our dad, Faster, Dad… Faster. And unless he had other things on his mind, he would accelerate just enough.

Those visits were some of the most memorable events of my early life. Our aunt and uncle had a two-story house, horses, cows, a pond, woods, a cistern filled with water from rains on the house roof, creeks, a spring, persimmon and apple trees—everything a kid could desire. Uncle Vol would put us on a horse for a ride, or put us on a sled (actually a wooden skid they used to move tobacco around), and the horses would pull us along at a steady gait. We fished in the pond. With a bent pin on a string, no bait, I would sit for long periods, pulling the string up from time to time, to make sure nothing was there. Once, I caught a little fish—I thought. But in retrospect, I doubt seriously if any fish lived in that little pond.

I can remember the beds. Great down-filled mattresses—we had to have help to climb up into them, and then, it seemed, we’d sink all the way down to the floor. They had a phonograph. You had to crank it to wind up a spring (I guess). Then when you moved a little lever, the record would spin, and when you put the arm with the needle down, the music began. And it was delightful (to our ears, anyway). You knew by the sound when the thing had to be cranked again.

I remember that Kinnie Wagner, a noted bank robber and outlaw of those times, seemed to be a kind of hero in the rural community, and upstairs, there was a life-size, framed photograph of a man. For a long time, I thought the photo was of Kinnie. He was from the Kingsport area but was widely known as Mississippi’s most wanted killer and escape artist. His career, six escapes and five murders, occurred between 1924 and 1948. Later, I learned I was wrong; the photo wasn’t of Kinnie—it was just a dark, scary photograph of one of our relatives who had died long ago.

This identifies the people in the photographs, pages 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7.

Page 3

Upper left photo: Lula Frazier Dykes, Dim Dykes, with daughters Blanche (upper left), Clyde (upper right), and son Chester (front)

Upper right photo: Tom Shipley Sr. in 1918, World War I uniform

Lower left photo: On the back was written Carl and Tom, Great Pals, Sporty eh? I think the one seated is Tom Shipley, and I believe the other is Carl Brandon, a very good friend of Tom’s, who was later killed in action in World War I.

Lower right photo: For years, I thought it to be a photo of Lula Frazier at a young age. But now that I have seen the upper photo on the following page, it could be of Lula’s sister Nannie. The original photograph depicted had Nannie written above the lady on the left, and the names of the others in the photo were also written.

Page 4

The upper photo: (left to right) Nannie Frazier, Blanche Dykes, Dim Dykes, daughter Clyde Dykes, and Lula Frazier Dykes

The lower photo: Lula Frazier Dykes’s father, Adison Frazier, and Rebecca Pierce Frazier, her mother—Blanche’s, Clyde’s, and Chester’s grandfather and grandmother

Page 5

The top left photo: Tom Junior Shipley

Top right photo: Tom Junior (right) and Jackie Shipley

Middle left photo: Chester Dykes (the grown up) and Tom Junior

Middle left photo: Tom Shipley Sr. and one of his boys

Lower photo: Abey Frazier Curtis, Lula’s sister, and Lula Frazier Dykes

Page 6

Top left photo: Tom Junior, Jackie, and Beryl Shipley (the towheads at lower left) and (I presume) neighborhood friends

Top right photo: Lying in front is Blanche, behind her at left is Clyde, then the mother, Lula Frazier Dykes, then Chester Dykes. At the rear, left, is the father, Dim Dykes, and to his right, unknown.

Lower left photo: Either Tom or Jackie on the horse, probably at Aunt Abey’s and Uncle Vol’s farm

Lower right photo: Tom Junior, on the tricycle, with Jackie Shipley

Page 7

This is a copy of the certificate of discharge from the Civil War for Adison Frazier, Grandmother Dykes’s father. The medal on his chest (page 4) was earned for service in the Civil War. It broke my brother Beryl’s heart to learn that our ancestor, the only one known to us who participated, served in the Union Army. It is difficult to read. The writing on the original is so faint that I sent it off to an outfit that rejuvenates old documents. So I am presenting the details on the certificate here.

Know ye, that Adison Frazier a Private, of Captain Elias H. Rhea company, (76) First Regiment of Tennessee Cavalry Volunteers who was enrolled on the twelfth day of January one thousand eight hundred and sixty-two to serve three years or during the war, is hereby Discharged from the service of the United States this fifth day of June, 1865, at Nashville Tennessee Per Gd no. 83 War dept. May 8, 1865. (No objection to his being re-enlisted is known to exist.*)

Said Adison Frasier was born in Rockingham County, in the State of Virginia, is twenty-one years of age, five feet ten inches high, dark complexion, blue eyes, dark hair, and by occupation when enrolled a farmer.

Given at Nashville Tennessee this fifth day of June 1865.

Elias H. Rhea, Capt.

Commanding the Co.

*This sentence will be erased should there be anything in the conduct or physical condition of the soldier rending him unfit for the army.

Written at the top authorized transportation to Cumberland Gap, Kentucky.

The upside down printing at the top indicated transportation was furnished at the cost of dollars.

We played football in a variety of places—a little patch of grass at the intersection of Forest Street, Myrtle, and Poplar; in a vacant lot next to Margaret (Poggy) Penn’s (’42) house on Watauga Street; in the park on Yadkin Street; or on the football field at Dobyns-Bennett. Mostly we played touch football but, from time to time, tackle. We played tackle with no equipment other than the football.

We played tackle when the black kids challenged us to a game. They put together their team from around Walnut Street, where the black people lived, and we cobbled one up from around Forest, Myrtle, Cross, and other connecting streets. We played games that lasted two or three hours. As I recall, we played once or twice a season with them. There was never any trouble—no fights, arguments, etc. And I don’t remember who won. Later on, their high school, Douglass, had a team, and they played some of their games at the DBHS football field. The ones I remember were well attended by both black and white people in the town.

We made a setup in the back of our house for high jumping and broad jumping and attached a wire hoop to the garage for basketball. At one time, at the corner of Oak and Bristol Highway, there was a triangular-shaped empty lot. Kelly Callahan’s dad, at the Kingsport Foundry, made us a basketball goal, and with that we erected a backboard on a pole and had ourselves a regular basketball court. We played there for some time until the goal broke. (We didn’t understand at the time, but I know now that cast iron does not resist bending or shock very well and is not the ideal material for a basketball goal.) After the streets were paved, we played hockey on roller skates in front of our house. Hockey wasn’t a prevalent sport; we didn’t know the rules, so we conjured up some of our own. In the wintertime, we slid on ice in front of our house or, when it was cold enough, on the ice on the little creek that used to run through the field at Robert E. Lee School. We used the driveway at our house for hitting and pitching practice. The bat was a broomstick, to improve the difficulty for hitting, and a tennis ball for pitching, to further improve the difficulty for the batter. Sometimes the ball was a ping-pong ball; you could really do some things to foil the hitter with it. We played at one of these activities until it got too dark. Then we retired to a lit area under a nearby streetlight and played cards—fish, old maid, hearts, etc.—or we played hide and go seek, kick the can, tag, or some other engaging game until the calls began for members of the group to come home. When those who were left were insufficient for a game, the rest grudgingly quit for the evening. But we could hardly wait for sunrise the next morning.

The members of this august group, and their year of DBHS graduation, in our neighborhood—with apologies for a dimming memory—were Ira D Lane (’40); the Shipley boys, Beryl (’44), Jack (’43), and Tom Junior(’42); Clarence Kelly Callahan (’44); J. R. Clayman (’43); John I. Cox (’42); Wallace Junior Jeter (’43); Tommy Breese (’42); Jimmy Hauk (’44); David Figg (’45); Steve Carroll (‘40); Wendell Spradlin (?); Ray Leonard (’42); Jack Curly King (’41); John Bud Randall (’43); Emery Spears (’40); Maynard Choke Taylor (?); Lowell Anderson (’42); Ivan Jones (’43); W. C. Lady (’43); Alf Crawford (’43); Bill Wimmer (’43); Louis Bailey (’43); Jack Crawford (‘43); Jim Watkins (’43); Lacy West (’45); Lawrence Thayer (’41); Klyne Lauderback (’42); and there were more, but my memory is exhausted.

My brother Beryl and I thought Junior Jeter, later to be known as Wallace, was probably the most natural athlete of the bunch. He was good at any sport and was very fleet of foot. I once asked him how come he could run faster than I could. He explained that I didn’t hold my hands properly; he said I closed both hands into fists, and that was slowing me down. He said that it was okay to close the right hand into a fist, but not the left. The second, third, and little fingers should be closed against my palm, but the thumb should rest on the closed second finger and the index finger should be wrapped around the end of my thumb. (It takes much longer to describe than it did for him to show me.) This did seem to help. I could never keep up with him, but I was so sure that made me more fleet of foot, that I was still holding my hands that way even as I ran as a basketball player in high school. (If any kids are interested in increasing their speed of foot, I can show them how. The description as written sounds quite difficult, but it is really quite simple to demonstrate. And the method is a surefire winner.)

During our early years in the late ’20s, there were many stories about Indians who had lived for generations in the area. We would frequently find flint arrowheads when the earth was disturbed for some reason. And we used to make bicycle pilgrimages to the Indian burial mounds on Long Island and down around Rotherwood, looking for whatever we could find. One story impressed some of us very much: The Indians never walked with toes pointed outward, their feet always pointed straight ahead. I worked long and hard to make sure that the toes of my feet pointed straight ahead, and I worried about that for years. (And even today, I frequently check their attitude.) But when we played cowboys and Indians, most of us wanted to be on the cowboy side. (I think that was because the bad Indians associated with cowboys were out west. And we saw them mostly in the movies. We liked the Indians around Kingsport, the Cherokees; we always emulated them when we were in the woods or camping.) And many a hard-fought battle was held on Forest Street between six or eight little boys, all armed, sometimes with rubber guns. These weapons were very important. All of the boys made their own, using spring-loaded clothespins fastened to a handle. The handle was fastened to a length of wood (the barrel) along which the rubber band was stretched. The rubber bands were circular, cut from old automobile inner tubes. The value of the gun was directly related to the length of the wooden barrel, along which the rubber band was stretched, and the strength with which the clothespin spring pinched the rubber band. The strength of the spring, increased by rubber bands fastened to the handle and about the pin to help keep it closed, allowed a longer gun barrel, which stretched the band tighter. This increased the range of the rubber band and heightened the sting when it hit an adversary. But if rubber guns weren’t handy, we used a pointed finger for the weapon.

There was a little patch of woods at the corner of Catawba Street and Oak, across the street from the high school. We frequently camped in it. We cut limbs of saplings to form roof trusses, supported by the limbs of other trees, and piled on sticks and leaves for a roof—and voila, we had a hut, and it was all our very own. This same patch of woods was used as a source for the materials needed for the construction of bows and arrows. These implements, from my experience, were never very effective—the bows were flimsy and the arrows were never straight. But we felt like bona fide Indians (the good Cherokees, of course), prowling around among the trees and hiding from each other.

We also played war. With rubber guns or pointed fingers or sticks, and yelling, Pow, you’re dead, one or the other side won a battle. The Shipley boys’ father had served in World War I and had brought back the helmet and gas mask he had carried during the war. The helmet was inscribed with all the places that his unit, Company H, 117th Infantry, and had passed through during its service overseas. I still remember the musty smell of the helmet and mask, the result of about ten or twelve years of improper storage. But we donned the helmet (we took turns wearing it), slung the chest bag (with straps for a grown-up) for the filter over our shoulders, and, due to our small stature, dragged it along the ground as we reenacted our version of fighting at the front. (These activities became a little more realistic to most of the boys mentioned above when, about ten years later—1941, 1942, 1943, 1944, and 1945—they left to serve in the army, navy, marines, merchant marines, or air force in World War II.)

I don’t know how little boys today can get along without inner tubes. We cut up old ones to make rubber guns and slingshots and used good tubes, inflated for buoyancy, for trips to the river. And we spent many a day in the woods looking for the perfect Y-shaped stick (where a tree limb branched out into two prongs) with which to make a slingshot. The patch of woods previously mentioned was a source. We fastened one end of two strips of rubber to the forks and the other ends to a square strip of leather. Then we looked for perfectly round pebbles for use as projectiles that would go straight when we shot them.

We played with hoops. With a pusher fashioned from a wire coat hanger or a length of stiff wire whose end was fashioned into U shape, we pushed a ring. The rings varied according to that which was available, but the best (as I recall it) were two or three feet in diameter. They came from wooden barrels—the rigid wire rings used to secure the wooden staves that formed and supported the rounded sides of the barrel. At times, on a sunny day, there would be five or six little kids, boys and girls, running around as they pushed the rings at speeds limited only by their fleetness of foot—with time-out, from time to time, to display their expertise in somersaults and cartwheels. And when an old automobile tire was available, to curl up inside the tire as another boy, awaiting his turn, rolled the tire. The experience of turning upside down, then right side up, over and over again, was exhilarating to kids of our age. And when it grew too dark for any of these activities, we played our usual—hide-and-go-seek, kick the can, or tag. As night drew on, if we were not too tired, we chased lightning bugs.

Our parents always planted a vegetable garden out in back of our house. It, too, was a neat place. When the tomatoes were ready, still green, we would build a little fire out behind the garage, sneak some cooking implement out of the kitchen, and have fried green tomatoes for ourselves. When remembering events that happened seventy to seventy-two years ago, some things fade; I remember frying the tomatoes but nothing else. Our parents also had a flower garden. Our mother called it her garden, but it seemed to me (by now you probably realize that I have a selective memory) that Dad did the weeding, the planting, and the fertilizing as the need arose. The three Shipley boys were frequently called on for duty, also; we were asked to weed. As I recall it, the job we did was never satisfactory. There were always complaints when we pulled the flower plants and saved the weeds. And it served no useful purpose for us to explain that we couldn’t tell the difference between the flowers and the weeds. If anything, it made things worse.

Our father started work at the Kingsport Press on April 2, 1923, about the time that the firm was formed, and worked there until his retirement in 1966. In the early days, he walked to work and back, about one and a half miles each way, every day. I can remember him, when I was very small, come walking up Forest Street from work and picking me up in his arms. I remember the stubble of his beard was rough to my cheek, then, but hadn’t been when he had left that morning. And it wouldn’t be rough the next morning after he had shaved with a straight razor, sharpened with the razor strop with which I became well acquainted. He played ball with us on weekends, and sometimes our Uncle Chester would play.

Later on, in high school, my uncle and I were the same size. He always wore nice clothes, and I would borrow his sport coat or suits for special occasions. In fact, I was wearing one of his sport coats when my high school graduation picture was taken in 1942. He smoked cigarettes and cigars, and the smoke permeated his clothes—I loved that smell from early days on. He enjoyed those vices (and I, secondhand) at a time when they were acceptable by all.

He and our dad taught us to shoot—rifles, primarily .22s, and shotguns. We shot at tin cans, mostly, in back of our uncle’s house—sometimes at other places in the country. Our uncle lived in the country on Bloomingdale Road later on, and we enjoyed visits with him and Aunt Jean and their three daughters—Constance, always called Buddy; Barbara, always called Bobby; and Diana, always called Diana. During the days of infantile paralysis, a kid in the family next door to them came down with it. Everybody thought he caught it because his big brother had slept on his leg one night.

Our days spent playing in the streets began to ebb when the city of Kingsport organized playground sports. The playgrounds were located at Robert E. Lee and Washington schools, situated near each other, and not far from our house. W. C. McHorris was in charge in those days. Paddle tennis and some of the lesser sports that did not require a lot of space were played at Robert E. Lee. Softball was played at Washington School. Different areas of town had their own team, and we played each other in tournament fashion. We selected the players for the teams based loosely on neighborhoods. The two leaders of the team would decide who chose the first player. A bat was tossed to one, he caught it with one hand and wrapped his fingers about the bat, and then the other wrapped his hand around the bat just above and in contact with the first’s hand. The first placed his other hand above the second’s, and they alternated until the last one was able to get a complete hand on the bat. He chose the first player for his side—and his choice was always the best player. The loser of the bat game chose second—and he chose the next best player. And from there, the choice of team members alternated until there were no more boys left to choose from, or two compete teams of ten each had been selected. The selection never deviated from that pattern—nobody chose a player because he was a friend or a relative.

I didn’t know it at the time, but some of those who were not selected for a certain team were upset. (The three Shipley boys played all the time and could play pretty well, so we were never among the last to be chosen. And I don’t remember worrying about which team picked me; I just wanted to play ball.) In 2000, I sent a book that my wife and I had written to Jack (Curly) King in Knoxville, Tennessee, who had lived down the street from us in those days. He wrote me a letter of thanks, and in it he remembered an occasion at the playground when he was not selected for our team. He had had to play with another group. And he pointed out, with obvious satisfaction, that his team won; ours lost. I have to admit that he has had an advantage over me for all those many years—not only do I not remember losing the game, I don’t even remember that particular event.

All of us, at around five or six years of age, attended Coach Sprankle’s Saturday Morning League for basketball. The older high school students refereed and gave the younger athletes pointers. The only requirement I remember involved tennis shoes, which most of us lived in when not barefoot. If you forgot your sneakers, you played in stocking feet—slipping and sliding about on the slick, hardwood gym floor. Jerseys were available for the players on one team; those on the other team were skins. Those who wore the jerseys had to be careful to avoid getting their feet tangled up in them; the jerseys obviously were made for bigger boys. But these were little disadvantages to us; we loved Saturday Morning League and never missed a session unless something major intervened. It was felt that Kingsport’s prowess on the basketball court in the early ’30s to the early ’40s harked back to this early start that many of the players got.

The Shipley boys had bicycles, off and on, as they were growing up. None of the bikes lasted long—for one reason or another, they always disappeared. But while we had them, we were free as a bird. We made the trip from our house to Bays Mountain many times. (A substantial distance, about twelve miles away; today, I wouldn’t consider riding a bicycle twenty to twenty-five miles.) The reservoir, located there, was always an attraction. But we also liked to ride around the mountain. For some reason, the dirt path around the mountaintop was smooth, and with a good breeze blowing, a little speed on the bike felt like flying. But the trip up to the reservoir was trying. In spots it was very steep and the bikes had to be pushed. The trip down was much easier, but it, too, had its trials. Our bicycle sprockets frequently slipped (Bendix clutches were known to be immune to this problem, but we generally had, as I remember it, Morris clutches that slipped). When it became necessary to apply the brakes, the pedals just wound up backward until the clutch caught, and care had to be taken to avoid careening into a ditch or hitting a tree at high speed.

I remember when I got my first bicycle. It was for Christmas. The door between the living room and the dining room of our house was always opened back against the living room wall. Behind the door was a place to hide when a hide-and-seek game was going on in the house. The Christmas tree was always set up next to the door. It was very exciting when I discovered the bicycle on Christmas day. But it was even more exciting when my brothers and I discovered, by accident, that Santa Claus had left the boxes and wrappings for all of our gifts behind the dining room door. It was that event that set me to wondering, at an early age, about this guy Santa Claus.

The bicycles gave us an early entry into big business. All three of us delivered the Kingsport Times newspaper. I learned to count by twos as I accepted the number of papers necessary for my route. I had various routes during that early career—one on Walnut Street, one in the Forest Street area, one in the Dale Street area. I can remember some fabulous breakfasts enjoyed with other boys on early Sunday mornings—a hotdog with chili and a dope (Coca-Cola). I don’t remember the location of the paper at that time, but I do remember that we entered at the back of the building from an alley. And once, as I was leaving on my bicycle, a car passed me as I rode down the alley and some smart aleck reached out of the car’s rear window and dealt me a lusty blow on my back. The smart aleck was George Doc Earles (’41). I can still see him leaning out the car window, laughing and waving as the car continued on down the alley. Shorty Adams was the circulation manager at that time, and for some reason, all the delivery boys seemed to bear him a grudge. But the only thing we ever did to show it was to plague him at Halloween—we sneaked around to his house after dark and threw debris—pebbles, dirt, etc.—on his front porch. I also sold Collier’s magazine and the Grit at one time. The Grit was a national publication and a favorite paper of my grandmother’s. I don’t have the remotest idea how I got involved with the magazines.

My grandmother and mother read a lot. Many times I was sent to the library to get books for them. The library was located in the old city hall, downtown near the intersection of Shelby and Center Streets. At times, two trips to the library in a week (only three books could be checked out at a time per person) would be necessary to keep up with the voracious reading habits of my mother and grandmother. Once, while I was in the service, my mother wrote me that Grandma Dykes had read eight books that week. The city court, the police department, and the city offices were also located in the same building. At one time, just outside the library area on a small table, reposed the death mask of John Dillinger, an infamous criminal of that period. The plaster impression of his face was created after law enforcement officers had caught him and, during a gunfight, killed him—in Chicago, I believe. I always took a good look at that mask and often wondered why it was there. It was in the men’s room in the building that I saw scribbled on the wall, for the first time, the admonition Please don’t throw cigarette butts in the urinal. It makes them soggy and hard to light. That is, by far, my favorite of all the bathroom-wall creations I have ever seen.

When my mother died in 1994 at the age of ninety-four, I acquired most of her old books. Virginia and I had received some boxes of her parents’ books after her mother died in 1980. In looking through some of my mother’s, I noted one or two with the posted message Property of the Kingsport Library. I hope they were old books the library had offered for sale and that my mother had purchased them properly. And a few others had acquaintances’ names written in them. One name I remember was Mrs. A. B. Coleman, the wife of one of the city’s mayors; I hope my mother was playing fair and had traded books with her. Mrs. Doane’s books appeared to be pretty clean.

I remember, when I was very small, opening up books (probably upside down) and wishing so much that I could read (maybe I remember, or maybe I was told—hard to be sure). But I definitely remember getting a book, Robin Hood, for Christmas. I began to read it that very day. Then for some reason, before reading very far, I turned to the end to see how the book ended. I discovered that Robin Hood died. I just knew that it was my fault; if I hadn’t turned to the end, he would have survived. Copious tears were shed. And the memory has lingered—I have never again read the ending of a book until it arrived in proper sequence.

The Industrial League played baseball at Dobyns-Bennett field on Wateree Street. The Kingsport Press, where our father worked, had a team, and whenever a game was planned, we tried to attend. Speedy Clyce was a star in those days, and I remember the Wright brothers, Claude and Eugene, and Claude Trivette. (My brother Beryl remembers that Claude Trivette could pitch with both left and right arms. This unusual capability gave him an advantage over any hitter. A left-handed hitter had trouble with a lefty pitcher and a right-handed hitter had trouble with a right-handed pitcher. Claude was able to give batters of both stances trouble.

Our dad went to every game unless something serious occurred, and he took us during our early years. Virginia Doane’s (a girl I didn’t know yet) father, Toy E. Doane, was also a steady attendee. He was known for yelling at the pitcher, Keep your foot on the rubber. As we grew older, we got more pleasure from sneaking into the games. Only one guy patrolled the fence area, giving us ample opportunity for success. If a game began to drag and the savor was lost, a few of us would search for something more interesting. On one occasion, we wandered into a small apple grove on Longview in back of a house on Watauga Street. We picked apples, filled our pockets full, and stuffed the remainder in our shirts. As we made our way back along Watauga Street, a police cruiser pulled up and directed a spotlight at us. The two policemen inside invited us into the car, and as we drove about, we discussed our activities with them. Of course we mentioned the ball game, and explained we were just walking around before going back. After cruising around a bit, they drove us back to the ballpark and let us out. They never mentioned apples or asked us why we were all out of shape at various points of our anatomy. They had to have known what we had been doing, but for some reason they let us go. Probably at some earlier period in their life, they had visited that same grove. On another night, we visited the same grove. Just as I reached for an apple, it seemed to explode. Someone had thrown a rock or something, and it had hit my apple. I didn’t pause to investigate and neither did anybody else—we ran. The grove was surrounded by a brick wall, but we cleared it in a single bound and lit on the other side running. We were so scared that, for all I know, we might still be running somewhere.

At about this period, the Institute of Violin was formed, and its salesmen began to call, door-to-door, selling violins and lessons. My brother Jack and I were around when the man came by our house, and we cajoled our parents to let us take lessons. After beating down their objections—too young, too difficult, too expensive, etc.—we finally got into the program. It didn’t take long before we began to lose the desire to become violinists; we hadn’t realized that practice, which was no fun at all, was a necessity. But our parents made us practice and things proceeded tearfully until the institute failed. (It was the early 1930s, and many businesses were failing at that time.) I can’t recall how the transition was made, but Jack and I eventually found ourselves taking lessons from Mrs. Campbell, on Sevier Street. We frequently walked or rode our bicycles for the lessons. By then we were older and had begun to worry about being known as sissies (for playing the violin). But we persevered; we never became known as accomplished violinists, but the venture taught us to read music and to enjoy it. We took lessons from Mrs. Campbell until about 1937/1938.

(In June of 2000, Kenner Lyons (’41), a friend of ours, performed on the violin at a high school reunion. He was a talented violinist, and performed in a lighthearted way, accompanying the group in the school song. He had previously noted, I was playing violin in the Knoxville, Tennessee, Symphony on Sunday, December 7, 1941, when word reached us backstage of the attack on Pearl Harbor. As we played Beethoven’s Fifth, the victory symphony, we somberly knew our lives would be forever changed.… [On] December 7, 1997, I played a concert with the Salisbury Symphony [Salisbury, Maryland]; but all during the performance I kept thinking back to 1941 and the fact that at age 75, 56 years and six symphony orchestras later, God blessedly has let me keep on fiddling. Kenner took lessons from Mrs. Campbell, Peggy Campbell Mayo’s (’42) mother, at the same time as did my brother and I. Kenner had told us that when he was ten years old, Mrs. Campbell found him a nice violin that his depression-era parents could afford, and this information had been quite unsettling. She certainly hadn’t offered to do likewise for my brother and me. It entered my mind that if she had, perhaps Jack and I, too, could have become symphonic violinists, and I could have accompanied the group in the school song. After more consideration, I decided that it was quite possible that she saw something in Kenner that she didn’t see in Jack and me. However, it should be noted that today Kenner plays on a violin made in Venice in 1906. And that is a very old violin. This was obviously a comedown for Kenner. Everybody knows that new stuff is better than old stuff. Somewhere I still have my newer, more illustrious, American-machine-made, 1930s-era violin.)

(It may be that Mrs. Campbell missed something in brother Jack. The Johnson City Press newspaper carried an article in 1944 about him. Playing for top screen and radio stars is no mean job for a musician. Yet, Pfc. Jack Shipley of Kingsport has sounded his French horn for more notables than he can count on both hands—and he is only 19. ‘It’s the luck of being in the Army,’ a [news] release from the US South Pacific Army forces said the Kingsport youth explained. Shipley belongs to the headquarters band of Maj. Gen. Frederick Gilbreath, commanding general of the South Pacific Base Command. When the band isn’t engaged in military duties, it sometimes becomes an orchestra. As such, its services are in demand by visiting USOers and personalities of the entertainment world. Or then, again, maybe Mrs. Campbell just realized Jack’s instrument was not necessarily the violin.)

I attended Robert E. Lee School, starting in kindergarten in about 1929 and moved to the first grade the next year. The only things I can remember about those years were happy times: recess and playing among the trees with Gordon Bonsack and others. And a sad time: I had been given a New Testament that had a ribbon place-marker. It made sure that I would never lose my place. I showed it to several of my little friends, pointed that out, and one of them grasped the ribbon, tugged on it, and ripped it out. I was devastated. We were standing on the steps that led up to the side entrance at the time. (Why I remember that, I do not know. I am sure that the story was not repeated sufficiently to impress it on my memory—the devastation must have been extreme.)

(I just learned, from Coach Leroy Sprankle’s book My Boys, published 2001 by Archives Division, Kingsport Library, that my little friend at Robert E. Lee, Gordon Bonsack, was killed during the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. I had often wondered what had happened to him since those early school days.)

After first grade, I moved over to George Washington Elementary School. My principal memory of a teacher there was Miss Quillen. She taught English and writing. She recommended me for a certificate of penmanship, and I received it in 1936. All remnants of her good work are now gone, resulting from long years of hurriedly taking notes and other bad habits. My handwriting is barely legible today. There was an emphasis on physical activity for some reason. Some man visited us and put us through various exercises. Chin-ups was a weak spot for me, but sit-ups I could handle. He had us do each until we had to stop. I didn’t last very long with the chin-ups, but I was still going strong at sit-ups when the count got to 125 and I was asked to stop.

I remember the grounds at school. There were large bare spots—no grass, just smooth clay—ideal for marbles. With a stick, we would draw a large circle on the ground. Marbles were contributed by the shooters and placed in the center. The contestants shot from outside the periphery of the circle, and if a shooter’s taw (the marble he shot with) managed to strike one or more marbles and send them beyond the circle and his taw remained inside, he got the marbles, and he was allowed another shot within the circle. He could continue to shoot as long as one or more of the marbles at which he shot were propelled beyond the periphery of the circle and his taw stayed within. Many games were played there, and in violation of parental instructions and school rules, we sometimes played for keeps. In keeps, the shooter kept all the marbles he was able to send beyond the circle. Fudging was frowned on. In our repertoire of language, it consisted of moving the hand rapidly forward as the thumb projected the taw, increasing the taw’s speed. The action was acceptable in our circles as long as the forward motion of the hand was concluded before crossing the periphery of the circle. My brother Beryl remembers that sometimes the big boys would play grabs. Anything they grabbed from the circle, they kept. In other words, they stole the marbles from us smaller kids—and they always played for keeps. But in spite of the dangers from the bigger boys, we played marbles a lot—at school and in our neighborhoods. And our pockets bulged with them, in preparation for games at recess, when we left for school during marble-playing season.

We went to assembly each day, sang songs from books that were supplied, listened to talks, religious and otherwise, and received instructions on school activities. I remember one of those events that outshone all of the others. Our principal, Mr. K. R. Addington, and a student, Hoyt Kesterson, tangled in a fight. I never learned what the problem was, but Hoyt seemed to get the best of the principal in the scuffle. However, his success was short-lived—I remember that he wound up in a whole heap of trouble. But he was still a hero, of sorts, to most of the kids I knew.

One absolutely clear memory that I have of those days involved a big boy I never knew. I was walking to school one summer day, and there was quite a crowd of kids around. A little way behind me was a boy much taller and much older than we were. He was barefoot, and he had the biggest and dirtiest feet I had ever seen. As we walked, I sneaked glances back from time to time to get one more look at those big feet. Evidently I was not as sneaky as I thought because all of a sudden, he yelled at me, They’re big, ain’t they. I immediately turned my head and ran toward school as hard as I could—and I didn’t look back. I suspect that that incident did more to prevent me from staring at people who had some type of problem than all of the instructions I ever received from my parents.

One event I remember vaguely. For some school function, the students had to portray some figure of the art world. The grown-ups decided who was to portray whom. I was selected and costumed to portray Boy Blue, a painting by Gainsborough. Some photographs taken of the event plagued me for some time—the long hair (false, of course), the peculiar early garb—knickers (as we called knee-length trousers in those days), knee stockings, etc. I have a pair of very old bookends that belonged to my mother that are decorated with framed reproductions of the painting. I have often wondered if they could have been used to dress me up for the embarrassing episode. I surely wish I could stumble onto one of those photographs of me now—the grandkids would have a field day.

After graduating from George Washington Elementary, we moved on to Junior High School. The building had been the old Abraham Lincoln Elementary School. With renovations and additions, it was put into service as Junior High in 1936 just in time for my arrival. One of the few memories I have of those days involved taking French. Contrary to my reasonable success with other courses, I didn’t do well with it at all. And this did not endear me to my mother. She was the new school’s first PTA president, serving in 1937, ’38, and ’39, and knew most of the things that were going on. (As a matter of fact, her three sons learned that she knew too much of the goings-on in Kingsport, and this frequently put a damper on some of the activities in which we yearned to participate.)

High School Days

To become a high school student was a big deal. Upon graduation from Junior High, we walked the short distance up Wateree Street to Dobyns-Bennett. (As I write this, I do not see how this could be correct. We should have graduated in May or June and then, the following year, arrived at the school to start the new year. However, this is the way I remember it. Perhaps we had graduation exercises, then visited DBHS for a short time to celebrate our immergence from immaturity. Someone with a better memory will have to furnish the illuminating details.) My memory was correct; Bob Bobby Jack White [’41] remembered details and corroborated my story just this year, 2004.) After we arrived, we were assembled in study hall, supervised by Ms. Springer, a teacher. No more than about fifteen minutes after being seated, I was mortified when she caught an exchange of spitballs between a few friends and me. She didn’t catch them; she caught me. I remember very well her exact words. You are in high school now, and we don’t throw things. My sense of well-being evaporated—suddenly I was back in kindergarten, beginning my school days all over again. (I would like to say that she cured me from doing things that I should not have done and that I never did anything like that again. But I can’t. The shock of being caught should have taught me something—but if it did, it was to be more careful next time. I guess you learn from some things, you don’t from others. This was one of my others.

In 1938, it was decided (I suspect by my mother) that I should expand my musical ventures, so one Saturday morning, my mother and I visited Professor Witt at the high school. He was conducting a Saturday morning practice session in preparation for the upcoming September school opening. I thought my violin would be welcomed and that I could become a member of the Kingsport High School band. ’Fessor Witt kindly explained that the band did not use violins in its makeup, but my ability to read music would be an advantage many of his new students did not have. So he started me on an E-flat alto horn, also known as a peck horn because of the style of music arranged for the horn. The school furnished the horn; all I had to do was learn to play it. I played the alto horn until 1940; at that time, ’Fessor Witt started me on the French horn and invited me to join the high school orchestra. In May, at the end of that school year, he told me he needed a trombone player in September; would I like to try it? I said yes—the afterbeat parts I had been playing with the alto, and French horns had become monotonous. Again, the school furnished the instrument. He showed me the slide positions, wrote them and the notes down for me in treble clef. I began to practice, sometimes three or four hours a day, during summer vacation. By the start of school in September, I was a member of the band’s trombone section. What a change—it was an entirely different and enjoyable environment. I always read the trombone part transposed from bass clef to treble clef; every band arrangement included that part. I never learned to read music written for the bass clef—I never had the need.

That same year, 1941, we started a small swing orchestra. A trumpet player was needed—a trombone man, W. L. Cavin, was already there, and I couldn’t read music in bass clef anyhow—so I joined to play second trumpet. (I don’t know from whence the horn came, but I think it must have been my brother Jack’s. I had one with me for a while in the navy, and I know it was Jack’s.) John I. Cox (’42) played first trumpet, Barney Pendleton (’44) tenor sax, Kenneth Cox (’43) sax and clarinet, Kenneth Hultin sax, Winston Pannell (’43) clarinet, Vernon Fueston (’44) bass horn, Carroll McDavid (’42) drums, Jack McConnell (’43) piano, and Warren Brown, director and vocalist. Bob Neal (’43) and Shirley Pyle (’44) filled in for Vernon and Jack, respectively.

Our timing in starting the orchestra was not the best. Shortly after we started, the American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers (ASCAP) initiated action that prevented us and the rest of the music industry from buying and playing orchestrations of music written or published by the members of the union. Radio was going big time, at that point, and its use of musical recordings was a big factor in the problem. The composers and producers of the music for the recordings were receiving no compensation for the use of their work from the radio stations. So in a successful effort to obtain compensation, they struck. This stopped all performances involving ASCAP music and left available only folk songs and other early music not created by the union members. Old tunes, folk songs, spirituals, etc., that predated the union were revisited, orchestrated, and formed the repertoire of orchestras and performing musicians until the union won the dispute and the strike was concluded.

On Sunday, December 7, 1941, our orchestra was practicing downtown on Broad Street at the beauty shop of Carroll McDavid’s mother. Our practice was interrupted with the news that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. One of the band members had gone down to get a coke at the newsstand, just below, and was told the news—it had just been announced on the radio. The event didn’t register sufficiently at the time, but it was to have a decidedly unpleasant effect on all our lives. The practice continued as planned.

In 1939, along with Ray Baker, Mark Hargrave, and Lawrence Thayer, I went out for tennis. We made the team. I don’t remember winning any matches, but on the other hand, I don’t remember losing any either. Evidently, I wasn’t too bad. I made the team in 1939, 1940, and 1941. I didn’t participate in 1942. My brother Jack developed into a good player and was on the team in 1941 and 1942; in 1943, competitive tennis was curtailed at school because of WWII.

One event I distinctly remember about tennis happened one summer. I had a disagreement with Ray Baker—reason, unknown. We exchanged words and things were getting out of hand when I took my trusty racket and hit Ray in the head with it. I don’t recall how the event turned out, but we must have buried the hatchet later; we continued to play tennis on the team, played together on the basketball team, and were good friends when we graduated in 1942. (He called me in 2002; he was passing through the Detroit area and we tried, unsuccessfully, to get together.)

In 1939, Kenneth Cox, Charlie McNeil (’43), Max Neidigh (’42) and I went out for basketball and made the B team. Except for Coach Sprankle’s Saturday Morning League, none of us had had formal instruction in playing the game. So most of what little expertise I had was derived from the Saturday Morning league, choose-up games we played in the backyard and wherever. We had devised a way of getting into the school gym during Sundays and holidays, and basketballs were always lying around that we could use. So a bunch of us would gain entrance and play ball a good part of the day. These were the only times that we had access to regulation equipment. I was only 5’10" tall and weighed 120 lb wringing wet, so I wasn’t much of a threat to anyone. But I loved sports and persevered. The following year, I again missed the varsity and wound up on the B team. But we practiced on the same day as the varsity did, and the coach had us scrimmage against the varsity from time to time.

The 1939–1940 varsity had one of the most successful regular seasons recorded to that time at DBHS. In those days, unless you were directly under the basket, you shot a set shot. That meant that you became stationary, set your feet properly, and pushed the ball up toward the basket with both hands. So the game plan was to set up plays to get the ball to someone under the basket to tip it in, to dribble in for a jump shot at the goal, or to get set at a distance from the goal and send the ball up with two hands—the set shot. Nobody, out around the foul line or otherwise some distance from the goal, shot with one hand. In those days, it just wasn’t done. But that was what we did in our choose-up games. We maneuvered to get by our guard, dribble toward the goal, and push the ball up with one hand some distance out or swing it up with one hand over our head, with the ball protected from the guard by our body. One-handed shots of this type were called chicken shots, and were frowned on. Coach Sprankle discouraged their use, but on those occasions in games, when the results were fairly successful, he endured them.

I made the varsity in 1941–1942 even though I continued pursuing goals with chickens. Ray Leonard was our set-shot artist, and according to news reports, he and I were in contention for the top scores during the season. I did a set shot myself, but mine was a quick set, and the ball was pushed up from about face level. Coach Sprankle liked this a little better than my one-handed efforts, but still felt more time should be taken in getting set. (But in a moment of weakness, during a half-time speech in trying to get us going, he suggested that my ability to get set and shoot fast was an advantage.) During the 1941 Christmas trip south to Florida, an old clipping saved by the girl who later became my wife, the Kingsport Times reported about our victory over the Redlands Florida team: Tom Shipley was the toast of the team after last night’s game. The slim (read that skinny) Indian player went into the game in the second half with Redlands leading 16–13 to set a burning pace that soon left the home team far behind. Shipley garnered 16 points in the game.

We were not too great, however. Our 1942 school annual said of us, This 1942 team was not what the Kingsport teams were in the past. All the boys with the exception of two lettermen were inexperienced B-teamers. But we were not entirely without laurels. The annual reported further: Even though the ’42 team did not play the outstanding ball or win as many games as former Kingsport hardwood teams had, they accomplished something that the ’41 and ’40 teams could not: they broke the three-year jinx and won the 15th District Tournament of Upper East Tennessee. The Indians won over Sullivan in the opening round by a close margin of 27–26. They trampled over Bluff City 40–17, who eliminated the Braves last year in the semi-finals [and beat Blountville 39–37].

We followed some of the best basketball players in the school’s history. Tommy Peters was a member of the varsity for all of his four years of participation. He was the best all-around player I have ever seen, was one of the nicest individuals, and was the highest scoring forward of all time when he graduated in 1941. One of the keys to the team’s success was Coach Sprankle’s strategy. He employed five members of the football squad for use as a wrecking crew—John Bell (’41), Lawrence Mitchell (’42), Denver Crawford (’41), Bobby Cifers (’40), and Lonzo Barrett (’41). These guys were all over six feet in height and were truly football players (by contrast, we had only one man on our team who was over six feet in height, and he did not compare in stature). Coach Sprankle sent this bunch of heavyweights in