Persimmon Springs is a small town hidden away
in the wooded hill country of northwest Alabama, a quaint little village of
sorts, dating back to the early ‘20s. Its main street consists of Cleroy’s Gulf
Station & Garage, The Red Apple Grocery, Aunt Kate’s Kountry Kitchen, Hair
Today-Gone Tomorrow barber shop, and various and sundry other establishments. Most
everyone that ever lived there, still does. If you ever have a chance to visit
and are coming in on State Route 76, look for a sign that says:
Welcome to Persimmon Springs
Home of 634 Happy People
(And One Old Grouch)
We Hope You Stay a Spell
Persimmon
Springs' only claim to fame was the 4 lb. 8 oz. yellow onion Carl Early grew in
his garden, a record according to the Southern
Farmer’s Almanac. He never would reveal his “secret fertilizer” but
everybody knew it was the aged goat “compost” that came from an old barn down
on the Handley place. Carl, like most of the patch farmers, would take his
vegetables down to Maynardville and sell from the back of his truck under a
roadside shade tree, always the same one. And, unless you wanted to learn some new words, you didn't dare park under someone else's tree.
Several
years ago, Joe Bob Tanner, the town’s barber, saw fit to shorten Hobart to Bart
because, as he put it, “Hobart jes don’t roll off ye tongue like it ort
to.” It stuck, and soon it was Bart to
all the local folks.
The Higgins’
lived a couple of miles or so out Clear Creek Highway and about a mile and a half
at the end of a one-lane dirt road, in the only house on the road. The county
road commissioner claimed it was a private road, so with no maintenance, it was
more like a cow trail. Right where you turned in, there was a crudely painted
sign that said, “Prowlers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.” But it
was common knowledge that the sign was the work of some of Maynardville’s
teenage pranksters.
Bart
had three sisters, May, June, and Julie and one brother, Dubart, Bart being the
oldest. The Higgins’ mother, Loudean, was every bit as mysterious as Bart,
maybe more so. She was known for her secret rub-on potion that had been proven
to cure eczema, rosacea, psoriasis, acne, and the like, all overnight except
for psoriasis, which took the better part of three days. Nobody knew what she
put in the potion and frankly, nobody wanted to know. And Mr. Higgins? Well,
nobody ever claimed to have seen Mr. Higgins. As a matter of fact, many folks
wondered if there was or ever had been a “Mr. Higgins.”
Sun,
rain, sleet, or snow, Bart walked to town every day looking almost straight
down and always humming “Jesus Saves.” His only refuge from the weather was a
ragged Army poncho that he had brought back from
the Korean War, where he had lost his right arm in a mortar attack. In 1954,
the town council voted to name Bart “Disabled Veteran of the Year” but he
refused to accept it, insisting that Wilbur Bowman, the county’s only surviving
World War I veteran, receive the honor.
Bart
had blazed out a shortcut through the woods that carried him past the Valley
View Boys Home, a facility built in 1947, with money designated for such in the
will of James Robert Newberry, founder of the Red Apple Grocery Store chain. Almost
every day, he would stop near the home to catch his breath, resting on a large
cedar stump the boys had dubbed the “Hobart Stump.” The home’s director and
teacher, Mr. Willcott, figured out early that Bart actually wanted to watch the
boy’s daily softball or football game, sometimes even shagging a foul ball out
of the pine thicket that bordered the playground. He felt like Bart was a gentle
man and not one to worry about, but glanced in his direction occasionally
anyway.
As in
any small, closely knit town, news, especially bad news, spreads like a Biblical
swarm of locusts. Such was the case on November 21, 1968.
Sometime during the early morning hours,
Valley View Boys Home burned to the ground. A fire of that intensity was just
more than Persimmon Spring’s small volunteer fire department could deal with.
The home was empty, all of the boys having been fostered out to area families
for the Thanksgiving weekend and a much-needed change of scenery. Speculation evolved
into rumors: arson, the old electrical wiring, or lightning from a fast-moving
storm that blew through about that same time. But the state fire marshal ruled
that it was caused by an explosion of the outdated coal-burning boiler, the
source of heat for the building.
Devastation turned to empathy. What would happen to the boys the town
had taken in and learned to love as their own? The small insurance settlement
would have to go toward payoff of debts, loans, and other obligations, with
little, if any, left over for rebuilding.
And
what about Bart? That quickly became a point of worry for the folks that knew
and were concerned about his feelings for the boys. With Bart being so isolated
and the uncertainty of how to handle the situation, it became obvious that their
only choice was to let him find out for himself, not a popular choice but apparently
the only one.
On the
day after the fire, for some unknown reason, Bart didn’t take his walk to town,
a rare occurrence, and one of concern for some. Had he already found out about
the fire, maybe from the mail carrier or coon hunters passing through? But the
next day, Bart was back on his three-mile walk to Persimmon Springs.
Somehow, maybe because of a sixth sense, Bart felt that something was
wrong. Then, from the edge of the pine thicket, he spotted the shocking and unbelievable
sight: a pile of bricks, still-smoldering wood, and twisted, partially melted
bed frames that had been the home of 18 boys. Miss Mabel Eulas, the home’s cook,
who, like everybody else, had stopped to
look, said later that Bart just sat there, perfectly still, looking out across
the now vacant and quiet playground. It was later told that he sat there for almost
an hour, then turned and headed back home, looking down, as always, at the
trail in front of him.
No one
wanted the home rebuilt more than Mr. Willcott. But the resources just weren’t
there to do so, at least that was the consensus of the board of directors. The
town council, out of appreciation more than anything else, gave Mr. Willcott a
part-time job at the library until the future of the home could be decided. It
seemed that every prospect for funds led to a dead end. Then, in a town where
mystery had become “the rule rather than the exception” the granddaddy of all
mysteries developed.
On a
cool, bright Sunday morning, Mr. Willcott, as he had done for years, left for
church, intending to pick up Widow Jenkins, who had fallen and was on crutches
and would be for some time. When he opened the door to his station wagon, he
noticed two large grocery bags that someone obviously had left there on the
floorboard. The bags were neatly folded on top and tied with baling twine, as
if they were Christmas presents. When he opened one of the bags, he saw that it
was filled with $100 bills neatly stacked in bundles and tied with cotton
string. As fast as he could legally go, Mr.Willcott headed to the police station,
stopping quickly to tell Mrs. Jenkins he wouldn’t be able to make it to church.
To keep everything on the up and up, he called Mayor Hugh Ballard and asked him
to come to the police station as quickly as possible. In an hour or so, the two
men had counted and recounted the money. The two bags contained $187,400
dollars. The police chief, as he knew he should, immediately reported this to
the state police but a quick call to the FBI revealed that no such amount of
money had been reported as missing, anywhere in the lower 48 states. Every
attempt was made to keep this from getting out, but as you would guess, by
sundown everybody in Persimmon Springs knew about it. Conversation blew through
town like an Oklahoma dust storm.
Then,
logical thinking took over and Persimmon Springs' collective mind began to click. Everybody knew that Bart had received a
military disability settlement, was drawing an Army pension, VA benefits, and
Social Security disability. And it was obvious that he spent very little of it.
Pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit.
Now, the
old welcome sign coming in on State Route 76 has been replaced with a much
nicer, lighted sign, framed with rustic timbers, and proudly proclaiming:
~ Welcome ~
to
Persimmon Springs
Home of 658 Happy People
and the
HOBART HIGGINS HOME FOR BOYS
~ We Hope You Stop for a Visit ~
*****
Second Place Award
The Talent Among Us
Writing Contest
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