The red dirt road

Back when my family's new home was built at the edge of town in 1950 there was a red dirt road along one side of the property connecting with Center Street two blocks from downtown Apex. It left the edge of town and headed out into the county north toward Raleigh and ended a few miles away at the original town water reservoir next to the old water treatment building.

Many times my neighborhood friends and I would ride bicycles down that dirt road to go to the town pond just to wander around the pond or to walk over to the town's water treatment plant and look down into the clean water in the holding tanks after it was processed. Sometimes we would carry BB guns on the journey to do some target practice in the woods near the pond after having a picnic complete with peanut butter sandwiches and a 10 cent coke.

During that time period the town had made an interesting deal with the local fishermen to the exclusion of any of us that did not have the luxury of belonging to the local "fishing club" as dues paying members. No one was allowed to fish in the town pond or venture out onto it in a boat unless they had been granted the priveledge to join the club. Only the local men that had joined the club and paid an annual fee could fish in the pond. Our relationship with the pond consisted of skipping rocks across the surface, walking along the wooded edges by the water and sitting on the edge of the dam watching water flow down into the creek below.

The old water treatment plant is gone now and the pond has been turned into the centerpiece of a community park complete with walking paths, picnic areas and ballfields and is open to all citizens. The town has teamed up with other local communities and gets it water from a new facility built further out in the western part of the county. The land across the road from the pond was developed long ago and now there is a neighborhood of folks living in typical modern homes and the residents likely don't even know what the wooded area was like long, long ago.

As for the red dirt road, it was paved over many years ago, then repaved every few years, widened and then modernized with curbs and gutters required by the town as progress took hold in the area. The quiet solitude of the old red dirt road has been replaced by the daily roar of noise created by thousands of cars and big trucks speeding by several times a day heading out of town toward Raleigh and the Research Triangle Park to nearby places of employment and to the new town high school a few miles out along the road. Another of the old landmarks of this former small town has passed into history in the name of progress.

Oil on the red dirt road and DDT in the wetlands

Back when environmental concerns weren't so much a part of daily living a few things were done that have been completely banned today. I clearly remember two activities that were a routine part of the operating style of the town utilities department that would raise a major alarm in our current society.

One of the rituals of summer living in rural North Carolina, at least in my home town, was the occasional assault on mosquito colonies around town. During the hot, humid days of summer town utility workers would drive into the wetlands down by the creek adjacent to my home with motorized spray units spewing clouds of white "smoke" all over the marshy area nearby. Water that was routinely backed up in the wooded area on my neighbors property provided a large perpetually wet area for mosquitoes to lay eggs in and hatch new waves of insects. In those days DDT was the insecticide of choice for most anything and it was sprayed several times each summer and fall all over town. No one knows what effect it had on the crawfish and tadpoles growing in the creek or the birds and other animals living in the wooded area or the citizens living nearby. As you can imagine this practice has now been outlawed and there jeeps are no longer seen wandering through the woods trailing clouds of insecticide.

Another practice of those days was to scrape red dirt roads like the one adjacent to our property and spray used motor oil on the surface for dust control. The road, muddy, potholed and soft during rainy times, gradually appeared to take on the look and feel of an asphalt paved road at times until the oil soaked in and disappeared. Then the town would return with more tank truck loads of oil and soak down the surface again in a futile effort to reduce dust and try to keep the road from eroding. Although I never saw this practice in any other area it's a sure bet that this was done in many areas until environmentalists ended the practice with modern laws prohibiting oil disposal on roads and in landfills.

Bow and arrow battles in the swamp

Some of the craziest activities from our young days took place in the neighborhood marsh where dreams became real and lifelong friends were made. Among the activities we treasured were catching crayfish in the murky stream, paddling down the creek while standing in a wash tub like we were piloting old river barges, climbing the tallest trees in the woods and rocking them back and forth and having neighborhood bow and arrow fights with homemade bows and arrows made from tall weed stalks. It's a small wonder we grew up with no remaining injuries from those days and retained our eyes, fingers and health.

Of all these adventures the bow and arrow fights were perhaps the most dangerous. Each of us would craft a bow from a skinny sapling and string it with heavy twine. Then cut stalks from tall dry weeds and notch them so they could be used for arrows. When the designated time arrived we would divide into two sides and start walking through the swamp grass looking for the other team. Then we would shoot at each other until one side was wiped out or gave out of arrows. This might compare somewhat to modern day paint ball wars where two teams battle it out until one side is wiped out.

The old marsh has been gone for some time now since our grown up neighbor decided to dig a trench and "drain the swamp". Gone with it are millions and millions of mosquitoes, all the crayfish and tadpoles that became part of our many adventures and the source of much learning and contentment. Life is perhaps much safer and saner now, but the adventures of our youth brought endless hours of excitement, building friendship and learning how to survive in a world of constant change where very little remains from the past and the "small town" spirit that fueled our youth and fed our imagination.

Town police chief's toll gate

Our town had a typical small country town police force - a chief and a few officers to cover all shifts. High crime in a rural community was not a great a problem back then so there were always interesting little events to remember about interaction between the town's police, fire and support staff and community residents.

The town police chief was a man of many hats. He was the police captain, a member of the all volunteer fireman team and even drove the fire truck at times. He was vigilant in his police role but at times exhibited peculiar personal quirks not seen in modern times. He was an alcholic so on occasion was observed to be a bit drunk around town no doubt from the stress of wearing so many hats.

One day while at work under the influence on a hot Saturday afternoon, he decided to set up a "toll gate" on the sidewalk in front of downtown businesses along the sidewalk near the fire station. For at least part of that day, he demanded pedestrians "pay a toll" in order to walk past the barricade. He continued in his role as police chief and after I later moved away from town I lost track of him but always laugh when stories are told of the police chief's toll gate on the sidewalk a long time ago.

The day they tore down my treehouse

When I was very young my parents had a small home on the corner lot right next to the local school. Every day was met with excitement to see what activities would unfold next door in and around the schoolyard. This proved to be a constant source of new and interesting events brought about by the activities around having all twelve grades in a single location right next door.

One of my fondest memories of that time was of having a small tree-house in a china berry tree in our yard right beside the end of the schoolhouse. I could climb up in the tree and perch on the flat platform suspended about 10 feet above the ground and survey the whole world. From that lofty place I could look toward the row of windows in the end of the school building and see a room full of fourth graders learning about life and preparing for their move to the next grade at the end of the year.

Occasionally the teacher and students would spy me sitting in the tree-house and would wave for me to come over to the window for a visit. I would climb down the tree and trot over to the window where they would often talk for a few minutes and sometimes help me climb up onto the window ledge and down into the classroom for a short visit. This was always an exciting event and there would always be conversation about what the students were doing on that day and what was going on around school.

I will never forget learning one spring that the county school board has made my parents an offer on our home and then finding out that my parents had agreed to sell the house to the county. It seemed that the school needed a new cafeteria and the plan called for adding it on the end of the building where our home was. Unfortunately this meant we would have to move in order to allow the school addition to be constructed.

During the early part of the summer on a bright and sunny day I remember a small group of construction workers marching over to our yard and hooking a chain to the tree my treehouse was perched in, attaching the other end of the chain to a tractor and then ripping the tree down along with my treasured "happy place". In a short while the entire tree and platform were a hundred feet or so behind the schoolhouse where the buses usually parked and thrown onto a pile of rubble. They tossed a little kerosene onto the platform and other debris and flipped a match into the pile. In the twinkling of an eye the pile was blazing right up to the clouds and my tree-house was disappearing in a stream of gray smoke. In a few hours the whole pile was reduced to a little mound of ashes with a few nails, metal fasteners and miscellaneous unidentifiable items left behind when the fire burned out. The tree-house was gone forever and soon the home by the schoolhouse was to be home no more.

That summer my parents began the process of having a small home build a few blocks away and moving to the new address. A short time after that the old house by the school was lifted onto a house mover's truck and moved a block down the street from the school, then later restored for a new resident. To this day the old house is still there and has been remodeled as is often done with older homes in the area.