By Billy Chism
Former publisher, White County News
TOCCOA, Ga. | The first summer I remember with clarity was between my second and third grades. I had attended Pelham Elementary School in southwest Georgia, and finally understood that June, July and August meant no school.
When the school year ended in early June 1959, I was eight years old. In my first two years at Pelham Elementary, I met a number of other students. But there were none I could call a friend, unlike my older brother, Neal, who was blessed with friends.
Neal was 12, four years older than me. There must have been 15 other boys his age who lived on Tennyson Street or minutes away by bike. This gang of boys, when summer came, romped through the woods in our backyard, played army at the barn behind Bill Hand’s house, and went camping with the Boy Scouts.
As for me, I tried to join in. They would have nothing to do with me. I didn’t understand, but no matter. I had my own bike and made good use of it.
Most weekdays, I would pedal to downtown Pelham, where a world of wonders awaited. Usually, my little dog Spot would run along beside my bike. My main stop: The Hand Trading Company, a four-story department store built in 1918 by Pelham’s founder, J.L. Hand. Inside Hand’s was everything you could possibly want… groceries, clothing, hardware. There was even a drug store inside, with an old-fashioned soda fountain.
Across the street from Hand’s was the Hand House, a magnificent two-story Victorian home with beautiful gardens surrounding the property. My dream was to get inside the ornate cupola atop and look over the town.
Back home, Spot and I would venture into the woods, and sometimes go to a spring. The spring was not like you might imagine. No clear water bubbled up. It simply was a circular body of dark water, six feet in diameter, surrounded by pines, oaks and a bay tree. Sometimes I would poke a long stick into the murky water, to see if I could hit bottom. I never did.
Water from the spring almost invisibly seeped across a muddy patch. The water slowly became a small, clear stream. Crayfish darted in the cool water, while dragonflies and damselflies floated from flower to flower.
Then, one afternoon—out of the blue—my brother asked me to walk up Tennyson Street with him. Summer was coming to an end. He wanted to visit his friend Zane Bair. He told me Zane had a little brother, John, my age.
I remember meeting John. We sat in his sandbox and quietly talked. As it would happen, we were placed in the same third-grade class. John and I became best friends, and I spent many hours at his home the next few years. The Bair family became an important part of my life.
In retrospect, I have my late brother to thank for that.
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