Gum Log, Arkansas is a small community full of fond memories for those who grew up there. People know your name and you have shared experiences that give you a lifetime of memories. Many families in the area have been living there for generations, and the close-knit community is full of friends and neighbors that look out for one another. Swimming in the creek, riding bikes, and riding horses were all popular activities for children in the area. There were plenty of pranks to be played on the neighbors and lots of fun times together.
Farms have occupied the area for years, and Center Valley School is the local school that many of the children attend. The dirt roads in the area make for a fun and scenic drive, and the community's natural beauty is something that many people cherish. Growing up in a small community can be both fun and challenging, but it's a great way to build strong relationships and form a tight-knit community. You get to experience the same traditions and events year after year, which can create a unique sense of belonging.
I asked friends on Facebook to share some of their memories. The following are their stories with a little bit of added embellishment from me. Enjoy!
*Susan Andrews Church
Story 1: It was the summer of '69 when my family and I relocated from the sunny beaches of Florida to the quaint little town of Center Valley. Everything was new and unfamiliar, but little did I know that my very first encounter in this picturesque community would be the start of an extraordinary journey.
As my parents and younger brother settled into our new home, my mother made sure to instill in me one crucial piece of advice - never accept a ride from a stranger when walking up the road. It was a simple rule, meant to keep me safe in this close-knit neighborhood. Little did she know that I would soon defy her words of caution.
One sunny afternoon, as I made my way up the road, a truck pulled up beside me. Inside sat a charming, older boy named Mark Hubbard. He was a familiar face in these parts, hailing from the nearby Gum Log. Against my better judgment, I ignored my mother's warning and decided to embark on an impromptu adventure.
With a mischievous smile, Mark offered me a ride. At that moment, something stirred within me, a sense of curiosity and excitement that made me throw caution to the wind. Without a second thought, I hopped right in, completely disregarding the consequences.
Little did I know that seemingly reckless decision would be the catalyst for a lifelong friendship. Mark introduced me to his eight siblings, and soon enough, the Hubbard family became an integral part of my life. We spent countless hours exploring the beauty of Center Valley, creating memories that would withstand the test of time.
Years turned into decades, and my bond with the Hubbards only grew stronger. Among them, one person stood out - Gwen, Mark's sister. We became inseparable, sharing secrets, dreams, and countless laughter-filled moments. Through thick and thin, Gwen has been my rock, my confidante, and my very best friend for nearly 55 years.
Now, as I look back on that fateful day, I can't help but wonder how different my life would have been if I had heeded my mother's warning. What if I had never taken that ride with Mark? Would I have found the same sense of belonging and friendship? Would the Hubbards have become an integral part of my story?
These questions remain unanswered, and perhaps it's better that way. Life is a tapestry woven with unexpected encounters and choices that shape our destiny. And for me, that choice to hop into Mark's truck was the beginning of an extraordinary journey, one defined by lifelong friendships, cherished memories, and the immeasurable bond between two best friends.
As the years pass by, I am left in awe of the unpredictable twists and turns life often throws our way. And in those moments, I find solace in knowing that sometimes, the most remarkable friendships are born from the most unexpected beginnings.
Story 2: My father, George Andrews, and Ron Van Buren were friends, both avid amateur radio operators. They would often visit each other, and I was lucky enough to tag along as a young teen. Rex Van Buren, Ron's son, was the same age as my brother and so the two were quite close, making Rex feel like a brother to me. His brother Wayne was another close friend of mine, and I also had a special bond with his sister, Jeanine, who has since moved away. I miss her dearly.
Story 3: George Andrews and Larry Tipton had gotten themselves into a tricky situation. They were behind Odell's house one night, annoying him with strange sounds and taunts from their hiding spot. Odell had gotten angry and pulled out a .22 rifle. Instead of running away, these two teenage hoodlums started helping him by giving him coordinates to shoot at! "A little more to your left!" One shot came dangerously close to them, and they ran away with fear in their hearts. Larry was so scared he crashed right through a barbed-wire fence as they made their escape. And if you knew Larry, you wouldn’t doubt that! It was definitely an unforgettable night for the two of them.
*Diane Farish
Growing up in Gum Log, Arkansas, was like stepping into a time capsule. The small community nestled amidst rolling hills and picturesque landscapes seemed untouched by the hands of progress. As a child, I spent endless summer days swimming in Gum Log Creek, its crystal-clear waters providing both solace and adventure. And when I wasn't splashing in the cool embrace of the creek, I would pedal my rusty bicycle along the winding dirt road, exploring every nook and cranny of this idyllic place I called home.
The memories I made in Gum Log are etched deep within my heart. It was a tight-knit community with neighbors who became an extended family. The Van Burens, Rambo's, Hensley's, Griffin's, and Hubbard's were the pillars of our vibrant little world, their names synonymous with friendship, camaraderie, and the shared joy of living in this slice of heaven.
But as the years passed, time marched on, leaving its indelible mark on Gum Log. The once-cheerful dirt road was paved, erasing the nostalgic charm that had captivated my childhood. The creek, while still enchanting, had lost some of its allure as new generations flocked to other destinations.
Yet, amidst the changing tides, there was one constant that remained—a testament to the bond between my family and this land. The farm, where my roots ran deep, continued to stand staunchly, defying the passage of time. It was a sanctuary, a haven that sheltered generations of dreams and aspirations.
Every time I visited the farm, I felt a surge of nostalgia. Memories flooded back—the laughter of children running through verdant fields, the aroma of home-cooked meals wafting through the air, and the sense of belonging that only a place like this could evoke. It was a place where dreams were born, nurtured, and treasured.
As I walked through the farm, tracing the steps of those who came before me, a question whispered in my mind. What if these hills could speak? What untold stories and precious secrets would they reveal? The trees that witnessed our triumphs and failures, the soil that invested its life force into our endeavors, and the wind that carried our hopes and dreams—what stories did they hold?
And so, the farm became more than just a physical space. It embodied the essence of our shared history—a living testament to the values, traditions, and resilience that bound us together. It was a story waiting to be told, a legacy that deserved to be cherished.
As I stood at the entrance of the farm, a familiar mix of pride and melancholy washed over me. The allure of Gum Log, with its simple charm and unassuming beauty, still held sway over my heart. And as I left, bidding farewell to the farm that would forever be an emblem of my past, I couldn't help but wonder—what tales will the future generations unearth from these hallowed grounds?
*Barbara Ragsdale
Memories of growing up in Center Valley are some of my most cherished. We lived down the road from Susan Andrews Church and spent a lot of time riding bikes and horses around the Gum Log community. We were told a lot of stories - one of which was about an old cemetery from a wagon train at the Gum Log Creek. I'm not sure how true that story was, but it was just one of the many memories I have of growing up in Center Valley.
*Ron Butts
Memory is a powerful thing. For me, it takes me back to my childhood in the 1950s when I lived on Homer Roach Road. I remember my time spent in elementary school at Center Valley, with Mrs. May Poteete as my teacher for grades 1-3. Those years were some of the most special of my life, filled with wonderful memories.
I recall in those days at Center Valley School, there was a sense of warmth that emanated from the large pot belly stoves in the middle of the classroom. As winter descended upon us, these stoves would transform into fiery beacons, casting a comforting glow over our little world.
But one morning, an incident occurred that etched itself into the core of our memories. A first-grade girl, her tiny body wrapped in a worn-out dress, instinctively backed up towards the blazing stove, seeking refuge from the cold. Little did she know that this moment would change everything.
In a cruel twist of fate, her dress brushed against the searing hot metal, igniting a flame that engulfed her delicate frame. Panic overcame her, and she fled from the classroom, a trail of screams echoing in her wake. The sight was too much for our young minds to comprehend.
Yet, in the midst of chaos, there was one person who stepped forward without hesitation: Miss May, our dedicated teacher. With sheer determination etched on her face, she darted after the girl, fear fueling her resolve. The icy wind whipped against their faces as Miss May closed the gap, knowing that every second counted.
Without a moment's hesitation, Miss May tackled the girl to the ground, smothering the flames with her bare hands. The stinging pain of her burns was nothing compared to the desperate fight to save a life. Time stood still as the fire was extinguished, wisps of smoke curling into the winter air.
But the aftermath was far from simple. The little girl's injuries were too severe, and she succumbed to the cruel fate that had befallen her. And Miss May, well, her hands bore the scars of her courageous act. The physical pain paled in comparison to the emotional torment that plagued her every waking moment.
The event cast a long shadow over Center Valley School, leaving an indelible mark on its history. Miss May's classroom became a realm haunted by the memories of that fateful day. But the true impact lay in the hearts of those who witnessed the sacrifice of one teacher's unwavering bravery.
Years passed, yet the stories of that day continued to be whispered among the generations that followed. Ghostly echoes of the girl's screams and Miss May's valiant efforts reverberated through the walls. The legacy of that tragic incident lingered, a reminder of the fragile line between warmth and destruction.
And so, as time weaved its tapestry of forgotten tales, the curious whispers remained, leaving those who heard them with unanswered questions. How could a simple act of seeking warmth lead to such loss and sacrifice? And what became of Center Valley School, forever marked by the bravery and tragedy that unfolded within its walls?
Only the ghosts of the past hold the answers, their stories forever etched in the minds of those who dared to remember.
*Wayne Van Buren
Summers were special for me. The Van Buren family lived on Happy Valley Road when it was a dusty dirt road, now PAVED State Highway 326. As the sun beat down on the dusty roads, a cloud of dirt would
rise with every passing car. It seemed like there was no escape from the constant layer of grime that covered everything in sight.
Dad had finally had enough of the dust. He decided to hire someone to spread used oil on the road, hoping it would put an end to the never-ending battle of keeping the house clean. That was before those pesky environmental laws. Mother would often gripe about the constant need to wipe away the dirt that seemed to magically reappear.
Life wasn't all about dust and frustration, though. Center Valley School, a small and humble building, stood proudly on Highway 124 about four miles south of where we lived. Inside its walls, two classes existed - grades 1 to 3 in one room, and grades 4 to 6 in the other.
One of the highlights of school life was the lunchroom. Mrs. Taylor, the cook, had a talent for creating mouthwatering meals. But it was her homemade yeast rolls that were truly heavenly. The warm, buttery aroma would fill the air, and I would eagerly line up with the others to get my share.
Outside the school, a well stood proudly in the front yard, providing the children with cool drinking water during the hot school days. On the west side of the playground, a creek gurgled softly, its gentle flow an enticing invitation for adventure.
During noontime recess, when the teachers weren't looking, a group of daring friends, including me, would sneak down to the creek. We would spend our precious minutes of freedom building a dam in the shallow waters, laughing and splashing as we worked together.
But one fateful day, disaster struck. David Singleton tripped and fell into our small reservoir of water. He was completely drenched with no dry clothes and a half day of classroom activities ahead of him.
When we were caught, we were bestowed with a visit from the superintendent from the big city of Russellville. That was scary. I thought I was going to be relegated to reform school, and much worse, have to confront my dad! Reform school did not become a part of my future, but a weekly visit for a couple of months in the cloakroom with the superintendent was! Leaving the playground never happened again!
From that day forward, the creek lost its allure. The children's innocence slowly faded away, replaced by the weight of responsibility and caution. They never ventured down to the creek during recess again, the memory of that day a constant reminder of the consequences they had faced.
Oh, and playing tackle football on the playground with those dastardly sand burs never happened again either.
Why are memories so valuable?
Our memories are precious and can be a source of joy, humor, and comfort. They help us relate to each other and give our lives meaning. Relationships with our surroundings, fellow humans, and even ourselves are rooted in our memories. Without being able to reflect upon our past, we cannot learn and evolve.
In Conclusion
The Gum Log community has been a source of joy for many, and we hope that the stories shared in this blog have brought you some happiness. We hope that you found something meaningful and inspiring here and that you continue to read our blogs.
We would love to hear your stories and experiences of Gum Log too, so please add your memories in the comments below.
Finally, I would just like to leave you with one thought: never forget that life is too short not to enjoy the little moments.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog. I hope you enjoyed the Gum Log community memories shared and maybe they brought up some memories that you can look back on fondly.
Comments