Greer, S.C., Visit Stirs Memories of the 1960s

By Larry Steve Crain (Written in the fall of 1997)

It may have been my turning fifty, the family reunion or the rainy weekend, but my visit to Greer, S.C., this fall (1997) brought back a flood of memories.

My wife Carol and I left our home in Southern Pines, N.C. (near Fayetteville), on a recent cloudy Saturday morning and drove 200 miles to Greer.

We stopped at the Greer Winn-Dixie on Hwy. 29 to buy soft drinks for the J.A. Fowler Reunion (my mother’s side of my family). I looked for a familiar face in the grocery store but saw none.

We enjoyed the Saturday night reunion, even though our two daughters, who live in other states, couldn’t join us. On Sunday morning, we attended Faith Temple Church, north of Greer, off Hwy. 290, with my uncle and aunt, the Rev. Fred E. and Frances Hawkins Crain.

As church service ended, I saw a tall, gray-haired figure from my 1965 Greer High School graduating class - Ronnie Alexander. He filled me in on where he’d been since high school. He was in Vietnam in 1968; I was there in 1971.

“I was a cook in the army,” Alexander said, smiling. “I cook for the men’s fellowship here at the church.”

“That’s great, Ronnie,” I said.

“I’ve had hip replacement,” he said.

“Oh, really? I’ve had a little arthritis myself,” I said, feeling a twinge in my right hip.

We greeted more friends, and then Carol and I headed to Ryan’s Steakhouse for lunch with my aunt and uncle.

After we’d eaten and said goodbye, I decided to drive through the heart of Greer. A slow mist falling from gray clouds seemed to encourage nostalgia in me.

With our white Cutlass Ciera’s wipers on “slow,” we drove down Poinsett Street toward the center of town.

Past the Clock Drive-In Restaurant, around the curve and on our left, sat a building that once housed Polson’s Store. It was there the Greer High School band assembled every year for the town Christmas parade.

My mind raced back over the years. I saw us getting into formation, wearing our black uniforms with gold trim. A plume of fluttering yellow feathers accented each tall hat.

Marching into Town

I saw us warming up our instruments, playing tidbits of tunes: Carl Lancaster, trombone; Elaine Green, clarinet; Alvin Edwards, baritone horn; Bishop, Bruce, Burrell….

Our drum major, Don Dillard, in his cream-white uniform shouted, “Attention!”

He turned, blew his whistle, raised his baton, and we were off ... left, right, left, right ... .

Soon there was a drum roll; instruments went up, and we played ... ”Jingle bells, jingle bells ... .” The brassy sound echoed off the windows of houses on each side of Poinsett Street.

It was probably in 1959 or ’60 that I remember a bomb shelter being dug in the backyard of one of those houses near Polson’s on Poinsett.

Carol and I drove on through light rain. I saw the Wood Mortuary on our left and thought of the many times I visited there to pay respects to a deceased friend or relative.

Next, on the right, I saw the First Baptist Church where my late Uncle Wyatt Fowler used to attend. My high school buddy Jimmy Lynn and I used to shoot basketball on those chain-netted goals out back of the church.

I stayed at Lynn’s house on Circle Drive quite a few times. Jimmy’s parents, Ralph and Teresa, were warm and friendly people. When Mr. Lynn brought his “war bride” home from Italy after World War II, he made America a better place to live.

Our car passed Community Cash Supermarket, and I looked for the Poinsettia Bakery on the corner of Poinsett and Main, but it had moved and taken its great pastry smells with it.

I veered right on Trade Street and headed toward what was the Bailes-Collins Store. The painted, weathered “Bailes-Collins” letters were still visible at the top of the old brick building. When our band marched past the store, years ago, Roy Collins’ son Gene beat the big bass drum; Allan, the other son, played a trumpet.

I looked right, up Victoria Street, to where Dr. D.L. Allen’s office used to be. As our family doctor, he saw me through a serious leg infection when I was in seventh grade. I almost lost my left leg, and when medical expensed mounted, Dr. Allen would sometimes conclude one of our many visits to his office by telling my parents, “No charge.”

We turned left near the railroad tracks, circled back through town, turned right on North Main Street and headed toward Greer High School.

We passed Memorial Methodist Church where I once sang with the Greer High Boys’ Octet.

Further down Main Street was where the post office used to be. Our band played at its opening ceremony. That was almost as much fun as playing for Senator Barry Goldwater when he landed and spoke at the Greenville-Spartanburg Airport during his U.S. Presidential campaign.

High School Chapters

Finally, Greer High came into view on our left. An image of B.L. Frick and his bowtie flashed on the screen in my head.

Somehow, scenes from the 1963 junior class play came to me. Who could forget Lynda Hall in Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town”?

I remembered a P.E. class outside the school gym. We were playing volleyball in the hot sun. Ronnie Norris laughed as he adjusted his glasses with sweaty fingers before serving the ball. None of us knew that one day his name would be engraved on the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial in Washington, D.C.

I thought of the afternoon football pep rally on Friday, November 22, 1963. It was the last period of the day, and many students were outside near the flagpole, between the cafeteria and the band room. After the band played, I stood and held my trumpet while listening to cheers. Our band teacher, Proctor Hawkins, brought us the news: “President Kennedy has been shot.”

The following spring, our band marched in Washington, D.C., at the Cherry Blossom Festival. On that trip, we visited Congress, but I was so tired from partying, I could barely hold my eyes open to see Attorney General Robert Kennedy addressing some members of Congress.

I thought about the year I played on the Greer High varsity basketball team. Our Bobby Harley was perhaps the best guard in the state. He left little rebounding work for Tom “Stretch” Duncan when he took his jump shot from the top of the circle. We would gather in the locker room before each game; Berry, Bradburn, Oliver, Stewart ... . Coach Lewis Phillips rehearsed the game plan, and then we circled close, stacking our hands in a show of unity, as Coach Phillips led us in reciting, “Our Father, who art in heaven ... .”

I recalled one Monday morning in ’64 that Mrs. Carolyn Lawson’s homeroom was buzzing with discussion of the previous night’s Ed Sullivan Show - the Beatles had come to America.

I remembered that as my senior year began, eleventh-grader Wayne Foster came to Greer High. He was the first black student to enter our school and was the only black student in our school during that whole year. He seemed like one of the nicest people in Greer. Possibly, he was one of the loneliest.

I thought of our dedicated faculty: Mrs. Tooley, Mr. Eaddy, Coach Clark and many more ... solid, caring teachers.

Back then, Steve Woodward and Steve Greer excelled in football. Barton, Walker, Earley, Jackson and Lancaster were some of our scholars. Carl Lancaster scored in the top one percent in the nation on all his senior achievement tests.

Not all from our ’65 class of over 250 students made the headlines. Many of us were not beauty queens, scholars or top athletes. Many were not spotlighted in what songwriter Janice Ian called “the Friday night charades of youth.” I recalled faces of quiet people, those overlooked when “choosing sides for basketball.” I hoped they had all found places of fulfillment.

I remembered Thursday evening, June 3, 1965 - graduation at the football stadium. The printed program listed graduating seniors. At the bottom of the list was a special entry: “In Memoriam—Martha Ellen Davis." One missing classmate was a reminder of the uncertainty of life.

We celebrated our graduation, threw a few caps into the air, and all that. But I remembered feeling sadness at the closing of an emotional chapter of life.

The Last Stop

The rain continued falling as Carol and I passed the high school and turned right onto Highway 29. I had one more detour to make.

Only a short distance from my high school memories, I turned left into the Hillcrest Memorial Gardens public cemetery.

Without leaving our car, I could see a vase of red plastic flowers and my parents’ names: Jesse B. Crain, Eva F. Crain. Both died in 1989.

Dad was a combat infantry veteran of World War II. He retired from Homelite after many years of service. Mom went back to school after she turned 40 and became the nurse she had always wanted to be. She retired after serving for many years at Roger Huntington Nursing Center.

I remembered the words of Jesus in John 11:25: “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.” My hope of seeing my parents again is built on that promise.

Carol and I drove back to the main highway, turned toward Spartanburg and began our familiar trip back to Southern Pines. It wasn’t long before I had left Greer far behind, but I took my memories of Greer with me.

CARROLL A. CAMPBELL, JR. -- AND RESURRECTION HOPE

I shook hands years ago with the late Carroll Campbell, Jr., former governor of South Carolina, and never dreamed he would succumb to Alzheimer’s disease.

Before he served as governor of S.C. (1987-1995), Campbell visited the then-headquarters of Bigelow-Sanford, the carpet manufacturer I worked for in Greenville, S.C., during the early 1980s.

“Hello, I’m Carroll Campbell,” he said, extending his hand. Handsome, trim and well-groomed, he wore a tie and sports coat and stood probably no more than 5 ft.-8 inches tall.

“Good to meet you, sir,” I said, shaking his hand and giving my name as I stood near my desk.

Elizabeth Campbell Tatum, one of Campbell’s four younger sisters, talked about her brother’s last days in an article Chris Shipman wrote for “The Greer Citizen” (May 15, 2008).

Alzheimer’s disease is a brain disorder named for German physician Alois Alzheimer, who first described the disease in 1906. It destroys brain cells, affects memory and is the seventh-leading cause of death in the U.S. Alzheimer’s is the most common form of “dementia,” a term used to describe a group of brain disorders.

People noticed changes in Campbell in the late 1990s, but he wasn’t diagnosed with Alzheimer’s until Oct. 2001. As the disease progressed in him, he grew agitated when his wife wasn’t near him. He eventually had to live in a “home.” His sister Elizabeth said it was strange and sad to see her brother in a home at a young age. He was only 65 when he died in December 2005.

“He was brilliant, and it wiped him out,” Elizabeth said. “There’s no amount of money or fame that can stop it.”

I suppose most of us believe God can heal any disease. “Nothing is impossible with God,” many of us say. Someone noted, however, that healing, at best, is only temporary.

A New Testament writer penned these words: “And as it is appointed unto man once to die, but after this the judgment” (Hebrews 9:27). “The Bible in Basic English” offers this translation of that verse: “And because by God's law death comes to men once, and after that they are judged.”

Genesis 3:19 states, “For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” The King James Version of that passage sounds poetic, but its meaning is stark. God told Adam that he’d been formed from the dust of the ground and that he and Eve brought death to themselves by disobeying God and eating forbidden fruit. Adam’s sin brought depravity and death to us, his descendents.

As a child, I used to think Jesus would probably return to rapture the Church before I died – and I would escape death!

My parents may have hoped to see Jesus return before they went “the way of the grave.” But both of my parents, Eva and J.B., lived 67 years and died a little over three months apart in 1989.

My mother battled cancer but seemed to keep a positive attitude during her ordeal. My father retired and helped my mother (who died first) during their last few years. Mother told me they became closer during that time than they’d ever been.

Not long before her death, Mother told me, “It doesn’t seem like it’s time to go.”

I’ve heard of saints who seemed to know when they neared “departure times.” I reasoned that Mother was fairly young and maybe it was that “positive attitude” she usually exhibited that caused her to say, “It doesn’t seem like it’s time to go.” A few days later, she knew (I feel she knew, though she didn’t say so) that her time to go had come. And it did.

I don’t know when my time “to go” will arrive, but I like these words penned by William Jennings Bryan: “Christ has made of death a narrow, starlit strip between the companionships of yesterday and the reunions of tomorrow.”

Whatever happens, I have placed my trust in these words of Jesus: “I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live” (John 11:25).