Our Trip to Jonestown in 2011
Intrigued
by his descriptions of Potts Creek, the virtually non-existent Jordan Mines and
a ‘holler’ named Jonestown, we decided to visit the area. And so on a cool late November day, we met in
Strasburg, Virginia, not far from the Cedar Creek battlefield. Ever since his hot rod days as a teenager, Austin
has been fascinated by cars. He laughed
as I poured myself into the tight bucket seat of his favorite, a 1993 Toyota
MR2 that he calls Black Jack. He bought
it “… as a basket case …” before lovingly rebuilding it. (Note: Black Jack was sold in 2013.)
From Strasburg, we headed south
on Interstate 81 with the Alleghany Mountain chain paralleling us on the right. The long mostly unbroken ridgeline of the Big
Mountains, cousins to the Alleghanies, sheltered our left. After perhaps 45 miles of driving past mostly
farmland, we turned west onto Interstate 64, a critical conduit through the
Alleghany Mountains, the eastern portion of the Shenandoah Valley. The highway begins a slow ascent into the
mountains, reaching an elevation of over 1,500 feet, before turning southwest
and into a long and lovely smaller valley.
The road here rose and fell softly, and around every turn yet another
remarkable vista of sun-dappled valleys, verdant pastures, and tree-shrouded
hills. Descriptions alone fail to define
adequately the beauty of this land. A
single thought - “This is the way it was made … the way it should be” - manifested
in my mind.
We passed the terraced towns of
Clifton Forge and Low Moor, each situated just off the Interstate. Sandwiched between them, like a municipal
child, lay the small town of Selma. As
we drove on, Austin commented that although Low Moor had become economically
stagnant at some earlier time, it was now a growing town. He recalled that it was a good place to live
once, and likely still was, but added, “No crime, I guess, but neighbors are
neighbors.” The Alleghany Regional
Hospital is located in Low Moor; Austin explained, “… a critical point due to
the dearth of major hospital centers in the Valley.” Also of critical importance are the roads and
rails. Nature can give the Valley all it
needs in terms of sun and rain, but for humans, many important supplies must be
transported into and over the mountains.
We are accompanied our entire trip by a variety of tractor trailers
ferrying goods to and from the Valley.
Citing Low Moor as an example, Austin noted, “Every town was created
based on its proximity to the railroad in the Valley, which is why you’ll see
highways right next to railroad lines.
The highway descended slowly here
as we near Mallow, a suburb of Covington.
From the road, Mallow seemed to consist solely of several large strip
malls. The drive-in theater was located
nearby, Austin recalled and smiled when he added “... it was a buck a carload
so we’d just pack them in and go to the movies.” We exited onto Route 220 headed into
Covington. Our initial goal is Austin’s
first home at 401 North Allegheny Avenue (part of Route 220). We dropped down from the steep Town Hill onto
South Allegheny Avenue and within moments, the sylvan scenery is replaced by
the roofs of homes and businesses of Covington.
The homes are modest, mostly two-storey affairs constructed of brick or
wood. Austin confirmed that many of the
original homes remain, albeit updated with aluminum siding to replace the
clapboard slats. Many sit quite close
to the road, some perhaps less than ten feet.
As we crossed Pine Street, I see
it: A very tall and narrow white smokestack rising before us, spewing white
smoke into the blue sky. This sight
jarred me as I pondered this giant cigarette amidst the serene and natural beauty
of this part of the Valley. Nearby,
several smaller stacks, also part of the mill, contributed to the
pollution. The road began to rise again
and soon revealed a panoramic view of global conglomerate MeadWestvaco’s
Covington Mill. From our vantage point
on the road, the size of this massive complex became obvious. It covers many acres, stretching over a mile
along the Jackson River. Austin
explained that it remains the largest single employer in the region. Along with the approximately 1,500 people
working here, another few hundred are employed at MeadWestvaco’s Low Moor
facility. Trucks, along with trains, are
the lifelines of the mill, and small streets like North Allegheny remain
primary conduits in and out of Covington for them.
During our many discussions and
correspondence, Austin displayed little raw emotion regarding his past and
usually retained a matter-of-fact demeanor.
He dwelled less on the sadder aspects while focused - in his often
amusing and curmudgeonly manner - on other, often happy times. He registered no emotion discovering that his
boyhood home at North Alleghany was gone, replaced by an empty lot. Yet when we drive past the sire of Mr. Rapp’s
candy store - now also an empty lot - I noticed a difference in Austin. It was as if a profound wave of melancholy surged
within him. Finding nothing but
emptiness where a candy store once stood seemed to be the trigger, I thought,
and he muttered a few curses as we headed out of Covington.
We left Covington and headed
southwest, destined for Jonestown. Our
car quickly descended Carpenter Drive before crossing the Jackson River bridge,
zooming past the small enclave of Edgemont.
To our left lay the once vital Pitzer’s Ridge Road. Austin explained that for many years this
road served as the principal conduit into Covington for families who lived
further down Potts Creek. When
construction for Route 18 was completed, the Pitzer’s Ridge Road assumed a
secondary role. More recently, however,
when flooding from the Creek washed out one or more of the many bridges over
Potts Creek, the locals resorted to the Ridge Road to find their way home.
Driving the Pitzer’s Ridge Road
is perilous. We began on an innocent
stretch of roadway, with a high ridge paralleling our left and diminutive Hays
Creek to our right. Soon after the
junction for the Hayes Gap Road - an equally frightening stretch of roadway -
our car rapidly climbed nearly 200 feet before we crested the ridge. Three steeply banked turns awaited our rapid
descent and as the tires squealed through them, I found myself gripping pen and
pad tightly which greatly amused Austin.
It was an exhilarating and harrowing ride, to be sure, but once may have
been enough for this soul.
For many months preceding our
journey, Austin often proclaimed, “You had to cross ten bridges to get to
Jonestown from Covington.” He recalled in
detail the arduous trek between Covington and Jonestown during the 1940s, long
before the Potts Creek Road was paved.
It was “treacherous at best with many S and 90 degree turns,” he
explained, “with the creek sittin’ on your right or left.” Bridges, a lot of them, were needed for the
multiple crossings of the creek. The
first bridges were constructed of wood, and often washed away with high water
or floods, leaving many stranded and isolated.
Eventually, new bridges made of iron and cement replaced the wooden
ones, courtesy of the Work Projects Administration, a part of the President
Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal agency.
“Alright, buddy,” Austin
announced as the road quickly descended onto a small concrete bridge. “Start counting. This is Bridge 1.” Underneath flowed Potts Creek, perhaps 80
feet wide on this day, a churning mass of green and gray water as it spilled
off the small Rayon dam to our left.
This dam, long a mystery to Austin and Juanita, still bears the name of
its former owner, AET (Applied Extrusion Technologies). Rayon bought out AET in the 1990s and
utilized the dam’s power for a few more years.
We were on the Potts Creek Road
now, still ten miles - and nine bridges - from Jonestown. On a map, a mile or two seems minor,
insignificant, easily driven, but in reality that same mile portends a journey,
details of a life. The stories came more
easily now for Austin, flowing out quickly and rapidly much like the water coursing
through Potts Creek. He jumped from one
recollection to another as I scribbled furiously, part of me preferring to gaze
at the astounding beauty surrounding us.
I noticed the abundant bottomland
to our left as several horses grazed lazily in the brisk air. The homes were moderate in size, nearly all
1- or 2-storey structures, each with a large yards stocked with a variety of
sheds and farm tools. “These homes all
been upgraded, modernized might be the right word,” he said, “Siding has
replaced the clapboards I remembered.” As
we rounded a bend, Austin spotted a satellite dish affixed to the side of a
small clapboard home and happily proclaimed, “Civilization has come to Potts
Creek.”
The valley narrowed after a few
hundred feet, and we are nestled between high hills, flatland and Potts
Creek. Sunlight dappled upon the few
leaves still remaining on the many trees.
After a long horseshoe turn, we crossed the second bridge. The creek, now on our right, is more
turbulent here with whitewater quite visible from the roadway. Two more bridges were spanned in quick
succession. There were fewer homes but
the land was cleared and maintained, primarily for grazing purposes in this
tight little valley. Walking bridges
appeared now and then, often behind the few homes and far from the road.
After the sixth bridge, I noticed
a smaller, older road running parallel to us.
“That was the old road, and it was dangerous,” Austin explained. At some points, Potts Creek was visible from
the car but more often it meanders out of view as it flows in the deeper
recesses of the winding valley. It
widens considerably in some areas before narrowing to 4 or 5 feet in
others. The road twists lazily as the
hills seemingly keep us penned in. The
flatland here, Austin commented, remained quite prone to flooding since “there
wasn’t anywhere for the water to go.”
Floods brought both good and bad to the people living here. While often washing out bridges and homes -
even people and livestock during severe events - floods also brought top soil,
washed down from the hillside and upper creek.
This loam, rich in minerals and nutrients, helped the bottomlands remain
productive and abundant.
“This here bit of
horseshoe-shaped land,” Austin declared as we neared the seventh bridge, “is
called Boiling Springs.” The road
climbed rapidly and bent right in a sweeping turn to reveal Boiling Springs
Elementary School. The school has been
here in one form or another for many decades.
When Juanita Childs and her brothers attended the school, all 12 grades
were in the same building; her graduating class consisted of 14 students. Austin also began his formal schooling here
at age 6 in 1948. Children living farther
down the valley rode an old school bus as it churned its way through the rutted
Potts Creek Road to Boiling Springs Elementary (now rebuilt and
modernized). Next to the school is the
Boiling Springs Firehouse, a mostly square and indistinctive white cement
structure.
As we passed over the eighth
bridge, I noticed that the flatland stretched wider and the valley’s hills
seemed further away. Rarely is the road
straight, usually alternating between sharp and wide bends left and right. After we crossed the ninth bridge, a barely
noticeable concrete span, high roadside banks lined the road as Austin talked
about his father, Curly. “We always
stopped just after this bridge for a drink of water. About 50 yards past it was a spring,” he
said, “Cold, pure and great tasting water would come right of a crevice in a
rock wall.” Unfortunately, he added that
the local spring water was heavy in minerals and responsible for his myriad
dental problems. “The Valley gives and
the Valley takes,” he philosophized as we neared the tenth bridge.
Just
before reaching the tenth bridge, we crested a small rise in the road and were
greeted with vibrant farmland - “A most pastoral view,” Austin noted -
perfectly framed by the mountains. A
small chapel and cemetery appeared on our left, situated nicely on a small
plateau.
“This is the Lone Star Baptist
Church,” Austin announced as he turned into the parking lot, “My whole family
is buried here, and my plot is right next to my Dad’s.” There are perhaps four hundred tombstones
(headstones), nearly all traditional gray granite markers, arranged in multiple
rows over three sections, the entire cemetery covering an acre. Potts Creek runs behind the cemetery; its
deep banks mostly hidden from our view.
It is very peaceful here and I am struck by the deep sensations of
peacefulness. A perfect final resting
place, I think; the feeling that God has blessed this spot was
inescapable. As we walked together for a
while, I sensed a hint of melancholy rising in Austin and decided to leave him
to his own thoughts.
“Your Dad sure has one fine view
from here,” I told Austin as he showed me his father’s gravesite. In 1971, Curly became ill and died in nearby
Mallow in 1971, tended to by Glenna Tucker.
As we bowed our heads in prayer, Austin placed a small wreath by the
headstone.
We moved on to find the graves of
his grandparents, Manuel and Hilda Childs.
As they shared their lives before, now they share a single
gravestone. Manuel passed away in 1969 at
the age of 79; Hilda lived until she was 82 and was laid to rest beside Manuel
in 1980. We wandered to other parts of
the cemetery afterwards as Austin searched for relatives and friends.
Cemeteries like Lone Star provide
an abundance of information concerning their region. An extraordinary number of tombstones bear
the names of Potts Creek’s past and present, reflective of their Scotch-Irish
and English (even Welsh) roots: Childs, Jones, Wolfe, Wright, Bush, Campbell,
Kimberlin, Fridley, Bogar and Armentrout.
Hilda Childs’ maiden name was Jones and her maternal grandparents were
Wrights. As a confirmation of Curly’s
origins elsewhere, he is - for now - the only Hines buried at Lone Star. Austin once told me that “everyone is more or
less related” in the Potts Creek area and the Lone Star Cemetery verified his
claim.
As we prepared to leave, Austin
noticed one headstone near the road.
Delbert Hepler, he explained, “drove the school bus, maintained the
school, and if there was snow, he was the one that cleared the roads. Prior to his death [in 1990], he was also the
game warden … a major job in the hills.”
Austin admired Delbert, a man much like his father: They had many
abilities, worked hard, and were well-liked and respected. As he turned left from the parking lot,
Austin offered an eloquent paean, “Yes sir, Delbert was a man of many talents.”
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