So, You're From Valley High? Who Are You?

 

If you went to Valley High School in Lucasville, Ohio, back in the day – 1966 through 1969 – you found yourself in classes with people from five distinct “areas.” I use the word "areas" loosely because I am, after all, stereotyping in this blog entry. However, I was thinking about those old days and wondering if the same demographics still exist. The school I knew wasn't really a diverse community of many racial, social, or religious backgrounds. It was pretty “WASPy” as most students were White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestants. So, I guess the breakdown of people was more along the line of your area of residence within the community.

I remember the divisions being (1) the Bottoms, (2) the West Side, (4) the Hollows, (4) Clarktown, and (5) the Hill. The overall flavor of the school was a dynamic balance of these five populations. It seems to me that the characters in the cast retained certain identities of their geographic divisions. At least, every now and then, I would hear reference to people who lived in those places. Anyone at the time would know the references.

In no way do I mean the following descriptions to be totally accurate, and certainly I do not wish to be demeaning of any specific area. To me, that's just “the way it was.” I loved folks from all of the places I will describe. Was our strength and unity derived from our embrace of this diversity? I believe that to be so. I can speak of my graduating class of 1969 and safely say that our classmates were very close and that our adventures and misadventures found us all over the Valley map. It was the school that united us.

Please allow me to describe Valley “Where are you from?” areas at the time I lived in the Valley School District.

The Bottoms

The Bottoms pretty much represented all the area of Lucasville proper, but especially the area from Rt. 23 stretching west to the banks of the Scioto River. In my day, the reputation of the place was “tough, wild, and wooly.” Most people from the Bottoms were said to be poor. They lived in a variety of poorer structures – homes, mobile homes, some very basic. Because of some rough folks living there, few wanted to “mess around” with certain activities occurring there.

Note: I am including students from Davis Camps in this division. A couple of miles south of Lucasville on Rt. 23, the “camps” were home to these river-loving individuals. I had always heard the camps were leased by George L. Davis, owner of acre after acre of bottom land. Living there where the Scioto makes a sweeping turn must have elicited its own sense of freedom. Close friends of mine who lived there loved their surroundings – it could be called “Lucasville South.”

The Bottoms had its fair share of scoundrels and “baddies.” It was the place we could find a bootlegger who would sell us underage people beer and wine. (Not that I would know about that … wink, wink. I have to remain credible in my tale.) And, my class always felt the place posed certain questionable characters who helped maintain a Wild West image. Cisco, Uncle Steve, Arnold the One-Armed Bandit, Squeaky, and Humpy were just a few of the notorious residents. You would often see them frequent the streets of the Badlands as they played their curious, individual roles.

Yet, some of my classmates lived there and were gentle souls, and one of them – Andy – referred to his areas as “Little Italy,” an obvious reference to a Godfather-like resemblance. I don't know about an underbelly as I was always afraid to enter into late-night poker games and some of the other activities rumored to go on there. Let's suffice it to say that many good folks lived in the Bottoms and became fast, loyal friends. In fact, our baseball diamonds were located there as well as our Intermediate and Grade schools, and we thought nothing of threat or crime there. Still, the repute of the Bottoms gave a definite edge to the overall community. Strangers who may pose a threat to area residents would not enter the place after dark – an advantage of living close to a little mysterious mayhem.

Oh, and I nearly forgot. The Bottoms just south of Lucasville housed the drive-in theater, the Scioto Breeze. What a place. Movies there were often secondary to just “getting out” or dating. The Breeze was our special hangout. It was part “sneaking” and part “entertainment” mixed with a dash of “check me out.” People came in super-hot, beautiful vehicles so emblematic of the times, and they loved to mix while the films showed – mainly for more family-oriented patrons. I'm sure everyone in our class has a Scioto Breeze story. I miss it so. It was part of our local color DNA.

The West Side

West of the Scioto River, the West Side was once home of the Ohio-Erie Canal. During my day, the rural place was full of farms and also River Folks. It had a long history of family-owned businesses and its own particular characters. Patriarch rule and understood respect for the place were bred-in-the-bone in respect to residents, politics, and way of life. My good friend Pat Crabtree actually wrote an entire history on places like Crowe Hollow and the distinct local flavor of the West Side.

I can remember a pool hall there. Some of my good friends frequented the place, but I was content to play the pinball machines once and awhile and not venture my few dollars on pool matches and, once again, those crazy card games. Later in life I coached Valley Softball and one of my players came to practice in a limo. I asked about her mode of transportation, and she laughingly told me her daddy had won the limo in a card game on the West Side the night before.

We loved the river, and we often fished and gathered there for the usual teen goofing off and messing around. How lucky we were to have the river running through our existence. I believe in symbols and their power in our lives. It was not the most pristine water, but it seems like the flow, the snags, and the sandbars were vital to our emerging character, not to mention the campfires and the sleepovers.

We had fellow students from Rush and Morgan Township, where in 1796, pioneer Hezekiah Merritt settled. The river was the first super highway of the state. Of course, Camp Creek was the home of the Little Old Winemaker who sold his concoctions to many a young, late-night visitor. He featured wine of any and all available natural substance from tomato, to dandelion, to Lord knows what. Just knock on the door and “lay your dollar down.” “Bottle of wine, fruit of the vine” went the popular lyric of the time.

The Hollows

Much too numerous to name, the list includes Houston Hollow, Millers Run, Rose, Hill, Fallen Timber, Schuler Hollow, on and on. This geographic notation might be considered the core of Valley Schools because so many came from there. If you've ever tried to drive these remote locations, you know why their hills and dales serve to somewhat isolate their residents. Not being demeaning here, but many were considered “country folk” who retained the Appalachian traits of their ancestors – friendly, religious, but pretty close-knit and reserved.

A driver's license and what my wife now calls a “hoopty” – an old car in running condition – were the tickets to exploring all of the more remote places in the school district. What a variety of landscapes and dwellings. Many people living in the “sticks” had other family on nearby property. No wonder these places were home to many homespun activities – hunting, gardening, raising livestock, and fun-loving social events like barbecues, ballgames, seasonal parties, and the like.

Also, the car gave us access to a different kind of socialization known as “parking.” I'll save the details for you to figure out, but many a nervous but amorous couple sought a quiet place on a deserted road to “court and spark.” The fear of being seen by adults or told to leave by an angry owner of the property made these places conducive to close hugging and other related rights of passage. Does Peach Orchard ring a bell?

In my time of the 60s we also found rural hollows to be great places to drink, turn up our 8-track players, and cavort aimlessly for lack of better pursuits. Wasted time was so great. I loved the freedom afforded by the country. I can't help but think those “different times” allowed us to work out our frustrations and dreams with our good friends. By the way, kids – don't drink and drive. We were very foolish and stupidly defiant in our youth. God knows I regret episodes of automobile abandon.

Clarktown

What can I say about Clarktown? A very small place on Rt. 139, it was home to one of the grade schools – Glendarle – and a unique cast of characters also. Let me make this clear – not much happened in Clarktown, and maybe that quality is its memorable feature. My classmates and I were past the Blue Ivy Inn times, but a popular grocery store there served local residents. Toss in a big curve in the road and another business or two and you have Clarktown.

Unfortunately, not too long after my class graduated, Clarktown became known as a place where some deadheads hung out, but that gossip is irrelevant to these memories. In the 60s, Clarktown was kind of a mixture of “part of us” yet “a little distant.” I think the fact that it is wedged between Minford and Clay school districts makes it more sporadic in our minds. Yet, those students who attended the very small grade school at Clarktown dearly loved the special, individualized attention. In fact, the people of the area have restored the school as their vital community center.

The Hill

My wife, who grew up on Kent Hill and in the Bottoms, often says I lived in a rich house in Marca Subdivision on what people called the “Hill.” If you call my dad, a Camel Cigarette Salesman who bought a $20,000 house on North Marca, “rich,” then I guess I'll just say “whatever.” At the time, housing divisions were springing up around Valley High School, now serving as the Middle School.

Houses featuring one acre or less lawns were being built – ranches and other modern styles were popular. Commercial ventures on the Hill were few and far between but residents frequented Harwoods, Lake Margaret, and very soon – the new Indian Valley Swimming Pool. Subdivisions closely followed the A-Plant boom and greatly altered the once-rich farmland.

I know the Hill as property east of Rt. 23, where many newer dwellings dotted the landscape. The feel was more “suburbia” than other Lucasville areas. And, yes, my dear wife, I believe most dwellings had indoor plumbing and not a two-hole outhouse like you were used to on Kent. All in all, the closer proximity of the homes made visiting classmates easier, so daily socialization increased.

I can say that some longtime residents of Lucasville did view the Hill as snobbish and unrepresentative of the heritage of the town. I felt little of this, yet I know this feeling did exist. Soon, any resentment subsided due to the vast numbers of houses on the Hill, and we matriculated as one happy group under the moniker of Valley Schools. Thomas Hollow, Pleasant Drive, Back Street, Maplewood Avenue, Miller's Run – it was all good. In fact, this diversity became a cherished part of graduating Valley High.

Maybe the Hill possessed the least original local flavor of all Valley areas. I assume this is so because it featured many newer houses and occupants. I moved to Valley from Clay schools in the 6^th grade, and living in Marca put me in the close surroundings of many newer residents without long Lucasville roots. We were super adaptive to fads and fashions that would make us “cool” and “groovy” – madras shirts, bell-bottom jeans, mini-skirts, Beatle boots and … of course … music.

We watched Dick Clark's Bandstand, Where the Action Is, Hullabaloo, Shindig, and the Ed Sullivan Show to see the Beatles, the Stones, Paul Revere and the Raiders, and a host of other British Invasion artists. I wish I could accurately describe how our friends, the places in our community, and the times made us feel. Yes, we were the love generation. As the song asks, “What's wrong with love, peace, and understanding?”

We believe in all of it. I cherish it today. We are the Baby Boomers and our large numbers gave us a wonderful voice, a voice seeking change and yet still respectful of our roots. Most of all, it was the demographics of our upbringing that allowed us freedom throughout our young adulthood. I wish all youth could experience the exciting, growing times in which we matured.

As a last word, I do believe lack of diversity of race, gender, and general social backgrounds did put us in a situation where we had much more learning to do – more so, for example, than those from urban cultures where these vast differences were commonplace. How I have learned to love this wonderful diversity. That said, I also praise those great adults in our community who understood us and served as our mentors. They were constantly watching over us. Without them, we would be aimless.

Roots and Wings, by Dennis Waitley

If I had two wishes, I know what they would be
I’d wish for Roots to cling to, and Wings to set me free;
Roots of inner values, like rings within a tree
and Wings of independence to seek my destiny.
Roots to hold forever to keep me safe and strong,
To let me know you love me, when I’ve done something wrong;
To show me by example, and helps me learn to choose,
To take those actions every day to win instead of lose.
Just be there when I need you, to tell me it’s all right,
To face my fear of falling when I test my wings in flight;
Don’t make my life too easy, it’s better if I try,
And fail and get back up myself, so I can learn to fly.
If I had two wishes, and two were all I had,
And they could just be granted, by my Mom and Dad;
I wouldn’t ask for money or any store-bought things.
The greatest gifts I’d ask for are simply Roots and Wings.