Life Is a Journey

By Barbara Haywood

This book is a story about my life and of the many travels, adventures, and experiences that I have throughout this journey in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647013554

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Life Is a Journey

Barbara Haywood

Copyright © 2021 Barbara Haywood

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-64701-354-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64701-355-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to my husband, Lantz, first, as he kept me going when I could hardly keep my eyes open at night.

Next our daughter, Sherri, and our beautiful granddaughter, Hannah Dunn, who is studying to become a registered nurse.

God has taken care of me all my life, and without him and my wonderful family, I couldn’t have written this book about the day I was born and without the love of my family and friends.

I hope this book will remain in our family for eternity as a reminder of the day of my birth, and when a family member passes, I will be there with open arms to meet them and make them feel that they are welcome.

—Barbara S. Haywood

This is my story of a country girl taking a journey down memory lane. The wonderful memories seem like only yesterday, and I am filled with excitement just writing my story to share with readers, not only for adults but for our children and grandchildren. My memories began in the late thirties, and I feel so blessed to have the opportunity of helping preserve some of this history. The love and friendship shown for one another as neighbors, friends, and others when the occasion occurred. I extend an invitation to you to take this journey with me. It will touch on some of the sites of interest where I lived. As the story unfolds, you might shed a tear or burst out in laughter through the writing of my story and pictures from the past.

My mom, Lucille Neta Mills, whose home was located in Bristol, Tennessee, met my dad, John Sanders Copenhaver, during a day of fishing. Dad was a student at Milligan College at this time as both loved the sport of fishing, and it was possibly love at first bite. Mom’s family was in Roanoke, Virginia, as her father was a conductor on the Norfolk and Western Railroad to Crockett, Virginia, to be with her aunt Neta Grubb to learn and help with the operation of the telephone switchboard. Dad’s home was only a walking distance away, and they were married a short time later. Looked like the fish brought them together!

In 1938, a healthy, crying baby girl was delivered to the newlyweds and given the name of Barbara Sue Copenhaver. Dr. Chitwood was the attending doctor. The hospital was located over some home with the help of a neighbor or midwife. Sometimes the baby was stillborn, especially in the breach position or with the cord around the baby’s neck. Incidentally, when I was seven years old, Dr. Chitwood removed my tonsils and anodes in the same hospital. He used ether as the anesthetic, and I woke up nauseated and with a very sore throat.

After going home, I hemorrhaged one night, and my mom told me, Dad snored through the whole frightening night.

My dad rented a three-room apartment over the Bank of Crockett, Crockett, Virginia. The bank was a small brick building and was known as a rich little bank. Several robbery attempts were made, and finally one night, a robber was successful in getting inside. My dad heard the noise downstairs, and he encountered the robber, and a chase ensued. While this was going on, Mom and I ran out the back door, down the hill, to my grandparents’ house in our night clothes, frantically knocking on their door. When inside, we were scared and tried to explain what was happening at the bank. While Dad was a small man, weighing about 140 pounds, soaking wet, he was able to hold the robber down until the police came and took him into custody. My mom and I were so proud of him, as was the whole neighborhood. This could have turned out differently, especially with no one living upstairs. I had trouble falling asleep and staying asleep after that unforgettable night.

We had electricity but no indoor plumbing. We had access to water from a neighbor’s which was piped down a steep hill to my grandparents’ Copenhaver’s house into a spring box inside their springhouse. We were lucky to live so close by. We had to carry all our water from the spring box, and depending on what the water, was being used for, the three of us made several trips a day. I had my little bucket and never complained, even if the water bucket got heavier with each trip. I learned an early lesson in what it meant to help your parents with chores.

Most of all, I would like to tell you about our outhouse with the Sears catalog (and it wasn’t used for placing an order). A deep pit was dug not too far from our apartment, then a small wooden building was placed over it, with a door for privacy. Sometimes a half moon was cut out on the door for decoration. There were two round holes cut out to sit on and ponder, if the weather wasn’t freezing. Linoleum was placed on the floor to help keep the cold weather out. We had to always be watchful of spiders as a neighbor was bitten once sitting on the seat, and you can use your imagination as to where! Sometimes paper was stuffed in the cracks on the walls to keep the wind out, but anything you did to try to improve the facility, it wasn’t a place you would like to visit often, day or especially at night. Some country churches still use these outdoor facilities.

My dad told me a funny story about him and his best friend. His friend had beautiful, long, blond curls, and the two of them decided that the friend needed a haircut, and off came the curls and down the Johnnie Hole they went. I bet that when they arrived home, neither one had to stand by the stove to get warm!

Dad and some of his friends sneaked out of the classroom one day and switched the wheels on the teacher’s horse and buggy. What a surprise when the teacher went out to go home and saw what had happened to her transportation. I am sure she knew who had instigated the prank.

We used coal and wood in our kitchen stove for heating the apartment, cooking, heating water for washing clothes and bathing. The water was heated in big tin tubs. Mondays were called wash clothes day. I could always expect a spanking on Mondays, whether I needed it or not. That was an exhausting day for Mom, even with a washing machine. She had to crank the wringer by hand and emptying the water several times. She had to be very careful using the wringer especially when something got caught and she has to get it untangled. It was easy to get fingers or a hand caught when doing so. After the clothes were washed and starched, they were hung outside to dry, no matter what the weather. I still have memories of Mom with the pockets of her colorful apron filled with wooden clothespins.

Mom had a neighbor, Vivian Wampler, who made all her aprons of feed sacks that had been ripped apart when the feed was gone, washed, and were then ready to make dresses, aprons, etc. Mom made her own starch and used a washboard to scrub soiled garments, like the necks of my dad’s shirts, and then they were ready for the machine. I had seen my mom’s hands bleed from being out in the cold weather hanging up clothes. We placed small heavy irons on the stove, and after they got hot, everything was ironed, even the handkerchiefs and underwear. Today I use one of the little irons as a doorstop in our home. It seems only yesterday that I was living in those three rooms with my mom and dad.

Bathwater was heated in the tubs once a week, and the only privacy we had when bathing was in the hallway with a curtain for privacy. The rest of the week, we took a spit bath, but we never went dirty. I didn’t have the finest school clothes but was always neat in my skirts, blouses, sweaters, bobby socks with brown-and-white saddle oxfords.

I used to stand at the window and look out as the trains passed by. The tracks were right across the road from where we lived. I would tell my mom, Someday, I will get to take a ride and I will wave to you as I go by. I could see the railroad crossing, hear the whistle as it neared, and the gates going down, stopping the vehicles. The passenger train would proceed onto the Crockett Depot. Passengers would depart and others would board. After the baggage was loaded, the train was off to the next destination.

One of my favorite things I liked to do in the summer was going strawberry picking along the railroad tracks. Those berries were so red, big, and juicy. I would whistle or hum as I went along. Sometimes I had to scare a snake off but would continue to pick until my little red bucket was full to the top. My mom would be waiting for me when I got home, and we would sit and talk as we capped the berries. Once in a while, we couldn’t resist popping one into our mouths. Early the next morning, I could hear her in the kitchen making the most delicious jelly and preserves. Dad and I couldn’t wait to put it on homemade biscuits and butter. Mom thanked me for picking the berries and helping her to prepare them. I was so proud that she was my mother. She gave me a big thank you and a hug. I glowed from the top of my head to my toes. Oh, the memories!

After my mom and dad were married, Mom continued working at the switchboard. Each customer had a distinct ring. The operator used a small crank on the side of the big board where she would plug long cords into, with metal tips into the switchboard connecting the particular party, and this made the connection. There were only party lines, and you had to wait your turn to use the phone. It could get quite heated waiting your turn! There were no secrets if you gave it out over the phone, and you could get more information than reading the newspaper.

As I got older, I would visit my great-aunt, spend the day, and would watch as she operated the switchboard. I was fascinated by all the cords that she had to keep up with, and she was so polite to the ones she talked with and made it look like a fun job. Sometimes I would spend the night, and I always enjoyed my visits, but when it was time to return home, I had chores to do and looked forward to my next visit. The building where she resided and the switchboard were still standing when a picture was taken. Time had a way of changing the outside appearance but not the history that went on inside.

Our family had a tradition for birthdays, and I don’t know how it originated. The morning of a birthday, someone would sneak up behind and with a little butter or lard on their fingers would rub it on the nose of the birthday person, and that was the beginning of their special day. That tradition would follow until I was a teenager and afterward. This brought laughter and with the birthday cake a day to remember.

Sometimes during the summer, Mom would take me to see my cousins who lived at Greasy Creek in Crockett. Their parents were Brady and Rose Zella Mills. Brady was my grandfather’s brother, and they lived on a small farm, with a barn, cows, chickens, and pets. To get to their house, you would have to drive across a small creek as there was no bridge and then a dirt road to their house. Mom would visit with the adults, and we would walk down to the sparkling creek and play. The water was cold, but we didn’t mind as we had fun building a dam and playing with the small pebbles. The spring that fed the creek was nearby. After playing, we were ready for lunch, and there wasn’t anything better than a country meal. The day always ended too soon, and with hugs and goodbyes, we were on our way home until the next visit.

My grandfather, Mack Copenhaver, and Mr. Hillenburg owned one of the five general stores serving Crockett, Virginia. It was a thriving little town at that time. During the flu epidemic before World War I, Mr. Hillenburg died from the flu. His family sold his part of the business to my grandfather. As a teen, my dad worked for the business sweeping floors, stocking shelves, and serving customers. My grandfather needed Dad’s help with the store, and because of this, Dad left college after only two years; Dad and Mom were married the following March.

Even at a young age, I wondered why we had to live in three rooms and without any conveniences like my grandad and grandmother Copenhaver had. Dad seemed happy and never complained, but I could see that it was taking a toll on Mom, but she never complained either. Dad’s brother and his two sisters were college educated, and their life turned out entirely different from the life we lived, but I never asked why as I was getting a school education and we always had the table as the majority came from the store. As I looked back, I wished Mom’s earlier married life could have been made easier, especially with running water inside. Come to think of it, it would have made life easier for the three of us. I am not sure how we came to living where we did, but after we moved to our house many years later, another family moved with a small son.

The store carried such merchandise as nails, fence wire, sugar, salt, spices, men and women’s shoes, spools of thread, rickrack, hair accessories, and about everything a person would need. Overalls were a big seller, and I wore them all the time except on school days and Sundays. It made me feel like one of the farmers. I liked spending time in the store with my dad and grandad sitting on the wooden benches on the store porch, swatting flies, the ones that didn’t get caught on the fly paper. I always heard interesting stories as well as watching the men using their pocket knives to whittle notches in the benches.

I liked trying on the ladies high-button shoes with my bibs (overalls) on. Dad thought I looked funny and couldn’t keep from laughing.

Most of the customers traveled by horse