FOOTPRINTS IN THE SANDS OF TIME
As my husband and I departed for our home in the chilly north from Panama City Beach, Florida,
in March of 1998 a sign on the beach called out to me. The sign read, "Don't leave anything on
the beach but your footprints." I thought about the thousands of footprints left on the beach
each day . . . only to be washed away by the tide. . . . Such is life. Dolores Riggs Davis
Below are my parents whose footprints in life are precious to me. This picture was taken at the
Dehue Fountain, by photographer, Louis Grinko who captured so many of our loved ones with his
camera.
The big hill we rode our sleds down on cold wintery nights seems much smaller than I remember.
Waiting for the Christmas season used to take forever, and now it seems to come twice a year.
In the summer our days were filled with childish games we made up. We played hopscotch with a
favorite rock or piece of smooth glass, and used discarded electric cords to jump rope. A
favorite pastime was stomping evaporated milk cans on our feet, so we could clomp around on the
paved street. "Red Rover . . . Red Rover, " echoed though the night as we called out "Please send
Billy over." We played hide-and-seek and go-sheepie-go under bright street lights. . . . But
when I heard the slap of the screen door, I knew it was time for a bath in our old round
number-nine bathtub.
It's a warm summer evening.
The just-finished shower has cleared the air.
The young boys in the coal camp play baseball . . . all are happy . . . none with a care.
Some young girls, usually in two's, walk slowly down the tracks.
The red evening sun glints off the hard shiny rails . . . rails that are resting from a hard week's work.
Two Blue ticks are barking about three houses apart.
They tug at their chains . . . eager for a hunt.
An old couple sits swaying in their squeaking glider . . . a slow easy rhythm . . . he smoking his pipe and she, stringing beans.
Two boys race on their bikes.
One wrecks and skins up a knee, then is helped by his buddy.
Crying in a squall, he walks up the porch, steps into the arms of his sympathizing mom.
Another mom steps out on the porch and yells "Johnny, come on home now . . . It's time for supper."
Of course, Johnny won't hear her the first time.
He, nor most of the rest of us kids, hear our moms on the first call.
Of course, our moms know that and they always allow time for our lack of attention, knowing we are probably about to end our "gun fights" at the O.K. Corral.
"Bang, I got ya!"
To which is replied, "No, you didn't; I jumped back and you just snibbed me."
"No, uh uh, I got you right in the heart. You're dead."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"Johnny, come and eat."
"Okay, see you tomorrow, Billy."
"Okay, but I still got ya."
The yellow light bulbs are switched on, hung under their pie-pan shaped reflectors.
Most of us start home; tired and dirty and dreading our baths.
Summer is almost over.
School starts in a few days.
Better enjoy it while it lasts, because IT WILL NEVER BE JUST LIKE THIS AGAIN.
Ronald Scaggs grew up in Amherstdale and Lundale on Buffalo Creek. He graduated from
Man High School, and is a mine safety inspector. He and his wife Nancy live in Beckley. They have
one daughter, Margaret Ann.
Taken in front of Margaret Wagner's flower box.
Dehue - 1939
and sat on Daddy's knee
He'd brush our hair and tell us tales
of how things used to be
Of growing up in "them thar hills"
of West Virginia fame
Of uncles, aunts, and cousins
who all share the family name.
There were Workmans, Fryes, Farleys
and the Flemings to name a few.
They hailed from Dehue, Dingess, Logan
Mingo County, Rum Creek too!
down the creek and around the bend
The good old stories just kept coming
and we never wanted them to end.
do we hear our Daddy's tales
But we have a lot of memories
because he told the stories well.
your daughters give with loving pride
In hope that many precious memories
will be hidden inside.
The Dehue History Book was presented to Fred Fleming by his daughters, Laurel Kay Jackson,
Mavis LuRaney Sharp, and Agnes Susan "Susie" Morrill on Father's Day 1998. It fired Fred up,
so he and his daughter Susie flew from California to attend the Dehue Reunion that year.
Daughter Jean died in 1992.
