Summer has not disappointed heat-weary citizens lounging inside with air conditioning in our hometown where temperatures feel like a 100 degrees. Perhaps the new moon on Sunday will signal some relief, as we languish in mid July.

We left you last week pondering the accidental death of Billy Gregg at Ratlin' Cave just east of Newport off Highway 25/70. Since then, I've spent hours with retired Judge J. Kenneth Porter to hear his recollections of the event and even got a tour around the old neighborhood from Lincoln to Iris. But let's return to Hugh Gregg Jr.'s story that takes us to about 1946. I have not pinned down the date, but Gene Branam is going to check his Plain Talk index to help me. He also has something to add about caves and our story here.

News flew around the town in the era of no cellphones, and not many rotary dial phones, so that citizens knew something was amiss, somebody's child had been injured. This early talk must have led to Hugh Sr.'s fears that it was his son who had an accident. Quickly, Hugh Sr. and Bert Poe got into Hugh's 1936 Dodge truck traveling towards Ed Burnett Bridge, Hwy. 73, and Hugh Boy was riding in the truck bed. They were mistaken at first that the accident had happened at the Pigeon River cave. Hugh Boy corrected them and they turned up Edwina Road towards Asheville Highway. Rattlin' Cave is on land below the city water tower, and during the 1940s there was a business called T&S near the railroad tracks just east of the bridge and across the highway from the Col. M.M. Bullard property where he made his home. I have never been to the cave, but perhaps you have. The opening is oval shaped and not large, an inviting mouth into the bowels of the earth. As word got out about the accident, many men gathered around the cave and night began to fall. They cut a large tree to place across the opening for ropes to lower into the cave. Lanterns lighted the night. Hugh guesses there were 75 to 100 people, and remembers there was no Rescue Squad at this time. There is a series of ledges on the way down hundreds of feet to the bottom. Here there are bones of animals that have been so unfortunate to fall in and die.

The rescue was difficult because of the darkness, depth of the cave, and difficulty working the ropes to lower men. (Ken will have more to say about this rescue and who led it.) Art Fisher Sr. finally brought his "Big Bertha" tow truck, the largest in the county, to help handle the lowering and lifting. Ken remembers the giant silver military-type truck with the business emblem, a fish followed by the letters "ER." After many hours, rescuers found Billy's body on a ledge and brought it out. Hugh said he was within feet of the victim and saw the wounds made to his red-haired friend. "He had rocks embedded in his head and back." Billy always wanted to be a Marine, wore a Marine ring. He was six feet tall and lived not far from the Hugh Gregg Sr. family at 7th Street. The victim's stepfather was a gravedigger. Witnesses remember the quiet as they carefully carried Billy's body to the bed of the old Dodge truck and drove into Newport to a funeral home. And, there was "a tremendous write-up about it in the Plain Talk." I have not looked at the back issues and should do so. You can go to the Stokely Memorial Library and view these on microfilm provided by the Plain Talk for most issues and select issues from WW II era and earlier.

During our talks about Rattlin' Cave, you recall that Ken Porter had been caving with other boys the day when the accident happened. Some reports today are partially correct, as memories fad over 60-plus years. So I chatted with Judge Porter, 76, at his home off North Street, and later, again when we collided in the plumbing dept. at Lowe's. The meetings touched off many memories and other cave stories. For those unfamiliar with this talented jurist who was a former state senator, let me present some family background. He was born April 6, 1934, and shares birthdays with A.M. Mullins, Eulas Samples, Patsy (Rhyne) Williams, and Cleo Stinnett-to name a few he knows of. Ken's first home, where he was born, was at 1000 Lincoln Ave, the son of John and Bessie Porter. There was another older brother, John Crouch Porter, born off Woodlawn Avenue. The Lincoln Ave. home is not far from Hugh Gregg Sr.'s home off Eighth Street, and Ken grew up during the Great Depression playing along Lincoln Ave., which was paved to about where the former Lincoln Ave. Grocery is and gravel from 7th towards Union Cemetery. It was 90-degrees in the morning, as we stood at 7th and Lincoln, the closed grocery on our left. Ken suddenly recalled the car accident. John and he were playing with boxes on their heads along the gravel road. "There was hardly any traffic on the road." A car came upon John and knocked him down. He got a lot of pampering, and was not seriously injured. When Ken was nine, his family moved to their home, I visited many times, off Iris Place. Those in the neighborhood included Fred Jones, John Ruble, T.E. Freeman, Forrest Stokely, J. Lacy Myers, Dr. L.S. Nease, and Roy Campbell Sr. to name a few he rattled off during our talk.

One of young Ken 's dearest friends who remains so today is Bobby Parrott, of Knoxville, a grandson to county clerk Walt Cureton. Bobby's mother was a well-known educator, Lagretta Parrott. Other friends included Johnny and Dickie Carson, sons of R.H. Carson, who moved to Newport to manage Parks Belk. Clyde Driskill Jr. was also older than Ken and one of the gang. "I always wanted to be one of the big boys," said Ken, referring to his older playmates. Art Fisher, Jr. was about three years older. The boys had an easy stroll from Lincoln Ave. to grammar school because it was mostly empty fields before World War II. Art's father had retired from the Navy and is credited with constructing the stone buildings near the courthouse of which Smith's Repair Shop remains. Others have been razed. Art Sr. even gave Ken haircuts. "He was so kind to me." Mrs. Art (Nita) Fisher and Ken's mother, Bessie, were dear friends. Nita was a Murray, who was raised not far from the French Broad River, he said. The Fishers lived across College Avenue from the Campbells and just down hill from the Porters at Iris. There was a chicken coop at the Fishers that the young men converted to their first clubhouse where they spent many a night with lantern. "Everybody had victory gardens and chicken houses," said Ken, recalling the war years and after 1944 when he was old enough to go cave exploring with the big boys, including the Poes, Greggs, and others. (Give me a call if you were one of that group.) With no cellphones, autos, computers, TVs, motorcycles, and other toys of today, the boys entertained themselves by walking, running, swimming, riding, tree climbing, cave playing. These were inviting during hot summer days because of their cool, dark innards.

Now, Billy, or Bill, Gregg was Art's age. Ken was about 12, the others 13 to 16 years old. "He was lanky with bushy red hair, blue eyed and fair skinned. He was Art's good friend," said Ken. "We explored all over, the bluffs, the river caves, and hiked." It was not uncommon for boys to hike for miles on a summer day. Once, long ago, Bob Parrott and Ken decided they would climb English Mountain and hiked to the area where Lowe's is to gain access to the steep mountain. They got to the top and returned through Carson Springs Creek, a mighty cold walk. But, Ken admits that bicycles were a big improvement over walking.

"We had all been to Rattlin' Cave," except for Billy Gregg. Ken explained that you cross the bridge, now lined with pink petunias, turned left and took the Jimtown road up hill to a gate, now locked. It was an open field for grazing cattle with some woodland. Boys often flew kites in the field and knew the paths. "You wouldn't notice it," the cave, until you were upon the ground where the earth creased, turned in revealing the small opening of the vertical shift. It was a collection point for water and debris. Ken had been within three feet of the opening, which was surrounded by leaves, sticks, debris. They would toss rocks into the cave and listen as they rattled down the shift for what seemed like forever. Ken guesses it was at least 300 feet deep.

That fateful day, Ken said Art was going to show Billy the caves at the Burnett place, across from the Dr. Jack Clark house off Edwina Highway.