Hangin’ Around Town on a Saturday Morning
Water Tank Hill, circa 1967. The Broadway Gulf can be seen at center right.
A lot of Saturdays in the 1960s were spent hanging out with my dad, Wayne Graham, who spent time hanging out with people he knew (and it seemed like he knew everybody). For a long time we’d hang out at Broadway Gulf, at the intersection of Main Street and Highway 70 East — the Rockwood Highway — before we started going over to my uncle Vance Graham’s station on the Truck Route (West Avenue).
(I say “a lot” of Saturdays because “a lot” of other Saturdays were spent with my mother and grandmother and my sisters in downtown Rockwood. But that’s a whole other story.)
The Broadway was owned then by Hook Boston but was previously owned by three great-uncles — brothers J.H. Graham (the former mayor’s father) and Fancher Graham, and their brother-in-law Roy Loveday. The station sat at an angle on the northeast corner of the intersection, a porte cochere between the pump island and the station itself, facing Main Street, and the service bays facing 70.
The building was brown brick, much like its neighbor Mayberry’s, and also had a small retail space that was occupied by Stubbs’ Barber Shop, co-owned by Pete Stubbs and his uncle Buford. Pete went on to become a county commissioner and longtime County Court Clerk. My dad and I got a lot of haircuts in that shop.
Most of the time we sat outside on a bench in front of the Broadway, talking to other men who were also hanging out, and whoever might come by that morning. “We” was really my dad — I got attention because I was there with him, not necessarily on my own merit. And I remember being so bored sometimes, listening to grown men talk about grown men stuff. I perked up when the talk turned to sports — the Vols and the Jets, especially — or I heard a name I recognized, but at that time I didn’t much care about anything political or the war in Vietnam or any of the other issues of the day.
The south end of Main Street looked and felt different then. Across from the Broadway was a block of buildings that included Hale’s Grocery on the corner, the Shamrock — a beer joint, in the vernacular of the day — a lunch counter and the old Chronicle building. The old Chronicle building is still standing although the Chronicle has long since moved on. Hale’s Grocery and the Shamrock are gone, replaced by a parking lot — no pink hotel, no boutique and no swingin’ hot spot (apologies to Joni Mitchell).
Over time my dad and I started hanging out at Graham’s Texaco, on the Truck Route at 10th Street and owned by my Uncle Vance. I have a few more memories of hanging out at “the station”, probably because I was a little older by then. I remember Papa Graham (Paul Graham, my paternal grandfather) parked off to the side in his green Chevrolet pickup that had been rigged like a motorcycle so he could drive after losing both legs to diabetes. Papa wouldn’t hold court, exactly, from the front seat of his truck but people would make their way over to say hello and visit for a little while. Papa would turn and sit with the driver’s door open, his gimme cap tilted one way or the other so the bill would block the sun from his eyes. He’d drink a bottled Dr Pepper with a bag of salted peanuts poured in — man, that’s some good stuff.
I remember when the price of that bottled drink went from 10 cents to 15 cents. I remember because my dad about blew a circuit when he found out . The drink vending machine sat just outside the station door and was one of those that had a tall, narrow door on the right side where the necks of bottles poked through holes behind the glass in the door. The bottles were held in place by a contraption that released when the proper amount of money was inserted and the chosen bottle was pulled out.
My dad put in a dime and tugged on his chosen product. The contraption didn’t release the bottle. That’s when he noticed the price increase. He had a spirited discussion with Uncle Vance about the price of soft drinks, my dad providing most of the spirit.
Graham’s Texaco eventually moved north up the Truck Route and became Graham’s Exxon. It first moved to the intersection of West and Miller avenues then a little further down, just past what is now Weigel’s. Graham’s Texaco/Exxon is no more. Gone too is the Broadway, caught up in progress. I miss it every time I come down Water Tank Hill.
But more than the physical locations, more than the tangible manifestations, are the memories of that time long ago. I always get warm and fuzzy when I think about Crossville in the 1960s — a simpler time, for sure. But it’s more than that. It’s the time of my youth. People I’ve loved have passed on, and I remember them largely in relation to my own memories. Most of all I miss my dad and watching him interact with everybody — yes, I’m sure it was everybody — who came by. He loved people and people loved him. He was taken much too soon.
I’m always looking for “old” Crossville. It’s getting harder but you can still find it. It’s still there.
You just have to know where to look.
rpdgraham@gmail.com