Randy Newberry


	Bland High School Class of 1969 The first section of this piece was written for our classmate, Dean Compton’s memorial service earlier this year. I’ve removed stories that didn’t pertain to our years at BHS and added a few that I hope you’ll enjoy. Some you probably hoped would never be brought up again. It is written in a way that tells our story to others; Just a few chapters from our class history. I hope I’ve done them justice. The Bland High School Class of 1969 was not an extraordinary group compared to its peers in other schools. Just like other teens our age around the country, we sported a few Beetle haircuts, some bell bottom pants and flashed the peace sign now and then, but we were normal young adults, doing what normal young adults were supposed to do. That is until we almost became the only class in school history, maybe state history, maybe national history, to be expelled from school a few days before graduation. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s back up a bit. Our days at Bland Elementary could not have been better, but the most memorable was 5th grade in the Little Red School house with our beloved teacher Mrs. Margie Blankenship. Originally it was a one room school down on Walkers Creek until it closed and was transported to it’s new home in Bland. A lot of classes attended 5th grade in this building over the years, but we were there the year after the big fire claimed the main building, so major construction on the new building was beginning just a few yards away. They were setting off dynamite almost daily as they built the foundation and would warn us to take cover, so Mrs. Blankenship, who was supposed to take us behind the lunch room, would just have us get under our desks. It was very exciting, waiting in anticipation until you felt the whole building shake as we heard the boom. This became a routine until a rock about the size of a baseball came crashing through the roof and ceiling during one detonation and landed harmlessly in the floor. They started blasting after school hours from then on. The Little Red School House is sitting right over here on the fair grounds and the patches in the roof can still be seen. Mrs. Blankenship was a force to be reckoned with. Short and stocky in stature, strong from hard manual labor on her farm; black and grey hair pulled back in a bun; she wore black rubber boots, no matter the weather; she drove an old “farm use” chevy pickup that you could hear coming for miles; she had a paddle at the ready and was not afraid to use it; she had false teeth that didn’t seem to fit very well, which brings me to my next story. One day, while we were all quietly writing at our desks and Mrs. Blankenship was rocked back in her chair on two legs, dozing in and out of consciousness, as was a habit of hers, she was suddenly awaken by a mighty sneeze. A sneeze so powerful that it projected her dentures nearly to the ceiling in a long arching trajectory toward the back of the room. Now picture if you will, a room full of kids, all speechless, mouths agape, all eyes fixed on the teeth as they continued their journey, in what seemed like slow motion, chomping their way through the air, until they finally crashed to the floor, ricocheting off of the back wall and spinning to a stop, a good 30 feet from their launch pad. As you can imagine, it was quite impossible for a group of 11 year olds to suppress their laughter at such a sight and the whole room erupted. Mrs. Blankenship, quick as a cat, stormed between the rows of desks swinging her paddle from side to side like a ninja, bringing it down on one desk and then the other in loud whacks until she retrieved her wayward dentures, popped them in her mouth dirt and all, wheeled around in a crouched position, staring at us with steely eyes, like a tiger about to pounce on it’s prey, daring us to produce one more chuckle. We were totally silent; not a smile, not a smirk remained. The whole event lasted no more than 20 seconds, but it was burned into our memory for eternity. The Little Red Schoolhouse was heated by a Warm Morning coal stove that sat near the center of the room. This required a rather long stove pipe that was suspended from the ceiling just a few feet above our heads and crossed the room to the flue. One fall day some of the boys were amusing themselves by standing below the stove pipe, jumping up and clapping their hands above the pipe. When it became Dean Compton’s turn and he clapped his hands above the pipe, his fingers accidentally locked together and as he came down, so did the whole stove pipe system. Just imagine; a soot filled stove pipe that probably hasn’t been cleaned since the Hoover administration crashing down upon the desks and the floor, a mushroom cloud of black nastyness spreading swiftly to the 4 corners of the room, a bunch of screaming kids and one really pissed off Margie Blankenship. She drew her paddle from it’s drawer like a sword from it’s scabbard and went straight to poor Jerry Six, who she disliked for some reason and who, by the way, was nowhere near the stove pipe and sitting in his desk half asleep, pulled him from his seat and beat the living day lights out of him, disregarding his pleas of innocence. During this beating, Dean was trying to tell her that it was he who knocked down the stove pipe, but she was determined to finish the job at hand. Once completed, she turned to Dean as he braced himself for her assault. She just looked at him and said, “well dear, you need to be more careful.” It does pay to be the son of a popular sheriff. Luckily there was no fire in the stove. That story reminded me of another Dean story. I’m sure that a lot of you here today had Claude Stowers for a teacher. Although he was a great teacher that everyone loved, you’ll have to admit, he was a little bit forgetful and easy to play tricks on. In our first year in high school, Dean and I and many of you were in Mr. Stower’s History class, which was the last class before lunch. He was kind enough to let us go five minutes early so we could get in the lunch line first. Well, Dean sat in the back corner of the room, right under the clock. Each day he would stand in his desk and set it forward a few minutes. I swear he did this sometimes in the middle of class in full view of Mr. Stowers. When that clock read 11:55, the time he usually dismissed us, Dean would bring it to his attention that it was time to go. Mr. Stowers would look at the clock, then look at his watch, listen to his watch, tap on his watch, adjust his watch to match the clock and let us out to go to the lunch room. This went on for several days until we weren’t in our desks 15 minutes before the clock said it was time to go. We were busted when the principal noticed us roaming the halls during class time. The class of ’69 continued to receive it’s high school education in an unremarkable fashion, not raising any eyebrows among our elders or the community. We were behaving ourselves , more or less, in a respectable manner, soaking up the knowledge being presented to us (well, some of you were), and giving our parents and teachers the satisfaction that they were splendidly performing their required tasks of instilling knowledge, manners and common sense into these fine specimens of young men and women, preparing them to go out into the world; to make themselves proud, the school proud, the whole county proud. That sense of satisfaction of the parents and teachers was shattered after the Class of 1969 Senior Trip!! It was supposed to be a simple 2 or 3 day trip, I can’t remember, to someplace in Virginia, I think, I can’t remember, just like Bland High School senior classes had been doing for eons. I don’t recall any scheme or master plan among the boys to bring alcoholic beverages on the trip, but I don’t think there were many who didn’t. One notable quote made in the aftermath, our chaperone, Mr. Thompson remarked to Charlie Dillow, “Charles, I knew you must have had something in that suitcase besides clothes, because you didn’t change all week!” That will give you a hint as to the amounts we are talking about here. But let me back up to day one. The first day had several notable events. The first being that we shared the motel the first night with another school on their senior trip; an all girls Catholic school from Wisconsin. Girls who had been deprived of alcohol, much like ourselves, their whole lives, the exception being that they were accompanied by nuns that were determined to keep it that way. Being from Bland County, we boys were pretty sure that we’d never seen a real live Catholic, much less a real live nun. It didn’t take long for us to coax a few of the girls into our room with the promise of libations. I wasn’t sure “libation” was the right word to use here so I looked it up. “A libation is a ritual pouring of a liquid as a offering to a god or spirit.” This worked perfectly; for when those nuns stormed the room like J. Edgar Hoover’s men on a bootlegger raid, I thought we were about to receive the wrath of God right then and there. They didn’t say a single word to us, but the stares that I received from a pair of those stealthy eyes burned a hole right into my soul that is still there. To this day, when I see a nun on TV, or worse yet, in real life, the hairs stand up on my arms. I always wondered what punishment those poor girls received. We never could prove it, but we were pretty sure that a few of our own Bland County girls ratted us out. Not that they were jealous, it just seemed like something that they would do. We managed to stay out of trouble for the remainder of that day and the next even though the majority of us were either pretty well snockered or very hungover the entire time, which brings us to the last evening of our trip. We were out of booze and more had to be procured. It so happened that our bus driver, who will remain nameless even though the statute of limitations has long past, was an old Bland County boy. When ask if he’d mind going to the liquor store he replied, “sure” , took our money, jumped into the 40,000 lb., 45 foot long tour bus and headed off down the road to the ABC store. Over the years, I’ve thought about this act of kindness many times and to this day I can’t help but wonder; WHAT IN THE HELL WAS HE THINKING!! Anyway, upon his return, he informed us that the liquor store was closed so he stopped at the 7-11 and bought us 7 cases of beer instead. All we had to do was get it out of the luggage compartment in the belly of the bus, which was in full view of just about every room in the motel. We racked our hungover brains trying to figure out how to retrieve it without getting busted. It was decided that while some of us distracted the chaperones, Mike Blankenship would casually walk to the far side of the bus carrying an empty suitcase, crawl into the luggage compartment and insert one case of beer inside. A few minutes later the next person would walk to the far side of the bus carrying another empty suitcase, quickly exchange it with Mike without stopping, continue around the bus and back to the motel. It would appear to anyone that happened to be watching that some idiot was just taking a stroll around the bus while carrying a suitcase. It was a stupid idea but it was the best we could come up with. We repeated this seven times with no one the wiser. As you can imagine, things quickly went down hill from that point. I could be wrong, but I think there were but a few classmates who did not consume at least one Pabst Blue Ribbon, the nectar of the gods. Most had several. During an intense out of control water balloon battle that had taken over the entire motel, word quickly spread that someone had been caught with a beer and that Roger and the other chaperones were coming down the line checking all rooms and students. Even though our room was last in line, we only had a few minutes to get our act together. There were several other classmates trapped in the room at the time, so they pitched in to help. Cases of beer were stashed in suitcases and slid under the bed. Furniture was set upright and in it’s place. Deodorant was sprayed and windows were opened to refresh the air. Dirty clothes and towels were thrown behind the shower curtain. Evidence of the water balloon battle was mopped up. Just as we heard footsteps and saw the doorknob turn, we all sat down in front of the TV like this is where we had been all evening. Mr. Thompson stepped into the room and we greeted him, nervously not taking our eyes from the TV set. As he stood their, hands on hips, slowly scanning the room for any sign of foul play, he commented, “Well now, boys, I’m impressed. It smells pretty much like the other rooms. Right Guard, I believe, but you’ve done a good job of cleaning up. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you boys have been right here watching TV all afternoon.” “Yes sir Mr. Thompson,” someone replied. “Except you’ve forgotten one little detail,” he said as we all very covertly glanced side to side to see what we possibly could have left exposed. “What’s that Mr. Thompson?” “You forgot to turn on the damn television!” After he had watched us open and flush every ounce of beer down the toilet, he left us to ponder what lay in store for us upon our return home and to Bland High School. Would we even be allowed to return to school? Would we be expelled just days away from graduation? Would we be forever marked as drunken, water balloon throwing trouble makers forced into a life of begging on the streets of Wytheville with Coal Dust Moore and the other winos? During this time of reflection, Charlie Dillow noticed that there was a slightly sloped roof that came up to the bottom of our window and he commented, “Boy are we stupid! We could have slid the beer out here on the roof and he never would have found it.” He stuck his head out the window, looked to the side in the direction of our other classmate’s rooms and discovered the remains of 6 cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon! It was heartening to know that at least not everyone in the class of 1969 was a total idiot. We retrieved a few 6 packs and popped the top on a few, but they just didn’t taste as good as before, having to swallow all of that guilt along with it. Our first day back at school, we were all interrogated individually and ask, “did you drink beer and who bought it?” As it turned out, practically the whole class confessed to drinking beer and since they couldn’t hardly expel the whole senior class, they made us write an essay or something like that and we all received our diplomas at graduation. It is notable that not one person gave up the bus driver, but I’m sure he learned a lesson that stuck with him the rest of his life, as did we. They cancelled the senior trip for a few years after that, so the classes behind us paid a bigger price for our mistakes than we did. Most of my fellow classmates here tonight know these stories all too well, but as I can see by the astonished looks on your families faces, they are looking at you wondering, “Who is this person I’ve been married to for all of these years?” or “Surely he’s not talking about my sweet Mom or Grand Ma!” “He can’t be talking about my straight as an arrow Dad or Grand Pa!” They probably had no idea that you had these events buried deep in your sub-conscience; that you were sheltering your family from your lurid past with hopes that they never find out. But let me assure you, family and friends of Class of ’69 members, that one mistake does not mean you are doomed for the rest of your life. The Bland High School Class of 1969 produced bank managers, engineers, nurses, teachers, building contractors, elected officials, salesmen, soldiers, firemen and skilled workers, just to mention a few. We all contributed to society in a positive way. And, to my knowledge, not one of us ended up on the streets of Wytheville begging with the winos.