Good Neighbor Day

Johnny Miller's family lived a few miles outside of Armadillo Creek, about halfway between there and Newport, off state highway 45, and down an old dirt road about three or four miles. They had an Armadillo phone number, but a Newport address.

Just past the turnoff down Johnny's road, on toward Newport, was Armadillo Creek Mountain. At least, that's what he'd heard it called all his life. He found out later that the folks over in Newport called it Newport Mountain.

That landmark was the dividing line between school districts. His school bus would go to the foot of the mountain, to the last house there, then turn back until it got to his road, and go to his house, and the driver was done.

Newport was an old town, like Armadillo Creek. It had started out more than a century ago as a logging town, and had never quite quit. The old school there was shut down now. The schools in the next town over covered that whole part of the county.

When he was little, his Dad used to tell him the story of what Newport schools were called a long time ago - "Poor Horse Schools". Johnny never learned if that was an "official" name, or just one of those "Pick on Newport" things.

The railroad used to wind its way along a spur line into Newport, but never did make it all the way to Armadillo Creek. Somewhere in the late seventies or early eighties, logging had gotten down to the point where the lumber mill in Newport pretty much died when the river flooded out the railroad tracks, and it cost too much to fix it to make it worthwhile to keep it alive. So trains were heard no longer in the county.

Although the economy wasn't booming here, the people were friendly. Each Labor Day, they'd celebrate with "Good Neighbor Day". Now, that had to be one of the highlights of the year for young Johnny. Over in the Newport City Park, they'd have a couple of bandstands set up. On one end, it'd be a stage with an old, country-gospel band, and on the other end, usually a bluegrass or a country act. Nobody famous - just local groups that were surprisingly good. Maybe one year or another, somebody like the one-man traveling band would come into town.

The organizers would set up a day or two in advance. A local farm family donated calves, and a big barbeque lunch was served. It was free for all, and grew year by year. The community came together and everyone seemed to have a great time. There was a carnival atmosphere, and while the parents visited and caught up and enjoyed the music, the kids ran down to the creek next to the park, and skipped rocks, or waded, or hunted for crawdads.

Jon boats would be set up on sawhorses, with tons of ice and canned cokes, from Pepsi to Coca Cola and Mountain Dew to Sprite and 7Up. Of course, donations were accepted, and when they could, people would give.

Politicians in the state liked to stop by here, and Johnny can remember shaking the hand of Frank White. He was not the governor, but had been. Politics here being what they were, Frank White had become governor by beating the old one, then lost to the same man, second time around. Now he was trying to become governor again, and was out pumping hands, even in this small town. Frank White was to never become governor again, but the one who beat him one day ended up in the White House.

Next to family reunions and Christmas, Good Neighbor Day was one of the highlights of Johnny's life. Poor Horse wasn't such a bad town, no matter what the folks on his side of the mountain said!