Fairview Church Cemetery Board: l-r Mark Eastridge, Terry Enlow, Darrell Newkirk, Joyce Lane, Linda Kellems, Teresa Campbell
I reached the rendezvous point early, so I turned into the parking lot. It was empty except for three Asplundh trucks, their buckets stretched skyward as if pleading for rain. The day had been a scorcher, typical of July. Luckily a brief shower had taken the edge off. I parked and rolled my window down to wait for my contact.
He had called two days ago. “There’s a Cemetery Board meeting Monday at 6:00,” he reported. “Why don’t you come? I think the board members can answer your questions.” Eagerly I agreed, and we arranged to meet in Taswell.
I flipped the radio on to pass the time, and in a few minutes, a red pickup appeared. It pulled alongside. Grinning, the driver rolled down his window.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yep,” I replied.
“Then follow me,” he said, nodding toward the road.
We drove north out of Taswell. Highfill Chapel Road twisted through the steep hills and dales of Crawford County. For some reason, this area always reminds me of Kentucky. We wound for seven miles past old farmsteads, cabins, and trailers. We turned hard left, then right, uphill and then down. Quite a few of the cabins and trailers had seen better days. Some appeared to be abandoned. Eventually, we reached Fairview Church, or at least the old building. It sits empty today. The church has relocated. We drove past the church and parked in the small cemetery. There are hundreds just like it dotting the countryside. It was peaceful and serene.
Mark Eastridge, my contact, climbed out of his truck. “While we wait for the others, let me show you the family,” he offered. Then we strolled through the grave markers as Mark identified members of the Eastridge family – grandparents, father, aunts, and uncles. Along the way, he also pointed out some of the board members families.
Soon the others arrived, each producing a lawn chair. That’s where the board met, in lawn chairs under the trees, serenaded by the swelling buzz of cicadas, birdsongs, and the distant drone of an outboard.
“The Corps property comes up to the edge of the cemetery,” Mark explained. “When it’s quiet you can hear the boats, especially when they are skiing.”
After introductions, the board agreed to answer my questions, and so, under the twilight sky, I made six new friends. Like me, they were all raised in the late 50’s and 60’s. In fact, it seemed like “old home week.” Over the next hour, they shared their life experiences and how their family got drinking water before the Patoka Water and Sewer District existed.
We discussed the Eastridge Spring, the reason I had contacted Mark. In my earlier interviews, I had learned about the spring. Clearly, it was a central part of life in this area. Since good wells were rare, most families captured rainwater in cisterns. During dry spells, those cisterns ran empty. To fill them water was hauled from the spring.
“We lived up on a hill,” Darrell Newkirk said, “and we had a well, and it’d go dry – what, twice a week in the summertime? I mean, we had to have water and Larry {Mark’s brother} and I became almost like brothers because he would come at 9 or 10 o’clock at night and unload a load of water. Sometimes, in the dry part of summer, he would sit down there for an hour and a half or two hours to fill up that great big old tank. And then they’d come, of course, and run it in that well and then Mom had to wait for two days for it to settle and then bleach it a little bit so as you can even wash our clothes. That was our water. That’s what we had.”
Mark’s dad had a business hauling water from the Eastridge Spring. It had been owned by Mark’s grandfather, Dan, and then it was deeded to each of the five kids. For generations, the Eastridge family hauled water from the spring. They also allowed others to draw from their spring. Never charging for the water, only for the hauling. It was a central part of their lives.
“That’s really, you know, some of my oldest memories. Of course, there was always folks there getting water,” Mark said. “And generally, whenever we’d pull in, they’d give us deference. But Dad would always say, ‘Ah, go ahead and fill it. I’m alright, I’m alright. Go ahead and fill it up or whatever.’ But, yeah, I remember that there was a certain way whenever you just had the pickup, that the water was running underneath you, that you just get out of the side, you’d sling that leg around. And you get in the back and go over, and you can get the hose and hook it up and put it in or whatever. And that way you didn’t have to get down in the water. But I remember hauling many a load there, all hours of the day and night. So, yeah. And then, of course, it was purchased by the Army Corps of Engineers, and they didn’t offer much money at all for it.”
One member remembered that they had a good well. They were in the Patoka bottoms, and the Corps took the ground.
“I think I’m the only one here that lost their house,” Joyce Lane said. “My family’s home was over here down {in the bottoms} and so it was moved. Rather, my brother moved it up on the hill. Yeah. It’s still up there, and he’s still in it.” Today, however, most families get their water from either the Patoka Water Company or from the District.
I was regaled with stories about one-room schools. Since the schools did not have wells, they had to fetch water from a neighbor. This was in the late 50’s and 60’s, surprisingly current.
Everyone shared their experiences with the aggressive Corps buyers, and how that affected their parents. However, as traumatic as that was, when I asked what they missed most, it was not the property. No, it was the sense of community that they lost. Construction of the lake isolated their area leaving a thumb of land stuck between two fingers of the lake. A bridge that was to provide access to the cut-off area never materialized. Construction of the lake forced the church members who lived in the bottoms to move. Many of those that remained found they were on the other side of the Reservoir, cut-off from their community. Over time, others migrated away, and a thriving community disappeared.
The consensus, however, is that the Water District has been a benefit. Without the District, hundreds of families would be without proper water, and towns like Paoli and English would be struggling to supply water to their citizens.
It was a lovely educational evening. Many thanks to Mark Eastridge, Terry Enlow, Darrell Newkirk, Joyce Lane, Linda Kellems, and Teresa Campbell. Their stories provide depth and color to the Patoka Story.
David L Dahl
——–
The Patoka Project continues to occupy all my time. Through last week, I have interviewed thirty-two folks. That’s thirty-two unique stories and recollections. Before the summer is over, I hope to speak with a few more.
While the editing of those transcripts is a daunting task, each is a fascinating journey into the past.
If all goes well, I’ll complete my research in August, and begin to draft the History of the Patoka Lake Regional Water and Sewer District.
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