I remember a story from my great grandmother from a few years ago now. She recalled electricity first coming to the small community of Oranda just outside Strasburg, VA. The whole conversation between my great granddad and her is not totally clear, but the jest of the outcome was he felt electricity was a “passing fad”. Due to how he felt, the last thing he was going to do was waste his hard earned money on having electricity run to their home.
You see, in those days you had to purchase wire from the electric company and then furnish your own poles to line the route. This involved cutting trees to the length the electric company specified and removing their limbs making them into poles. Then holes had to be hand dug along the route to set your poles in. Finally you had to string your purchased wire or line from the closest connection point available for electricity.
Even though they disagreed my grandmother talked my grandfather into allowing her to do this on her own if she could find a way. For starters she was able to sell one of the calves they had raised on their farm. She received enough funds to purchase the wire and still have enough money left over to get her eleven children their annual allotment of a one pair of new shoes for winter. The next task was to find the manual labor needed to run the three miles of line. She talked her sons and a few local farm boys into the job. They cut the needed timber, dug the holes, stood the poles and strung the line across this three-mile path to the nearby community of Clary, VA almost halfway to Strasburg.
Before that summer was over electric lights shined through the windows of that farmhouse near the far end of Spiker Lane. This remarkable story of determination almost ends there. It wasn’t just a few months later that a local furniture store offered the “next fad” as an in store promotion. The first television would be simply given away. Everyone excitedly signed up and kept their fingers crossed.
You guessed it; grandma won that TV and now was not only the first in the community with electric, but had the first television as well. She recalled people coming from miles around on Saturday nights to watch wrestling. Her living room was now the hub of the community.
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One night while playing the piano for southern gospel’s The Crestmen Quartet I had been asked to play something for the offering. Reluctantly I took a seat back at the piano while my fellow members of the group remain on a usually anticipated and appreciated break.
This beautiful hardwood floored church seated several hundred and on this night was filled to capacity. I start off simply enough with “Sweat Hour of Prayer” for a verse and a chorus or two. I could see some of the ushers over my right shoulder, which were passing the collection plates for the far right half of the church. As was my custom I gauged my piano solo on where these ushers were in the building. My goal is to end the piece of music as they reach the rear of the sanctuary.
Seeing the ushers finish the last row of the audience I put the finishing touches on a resounding rendition of my chosen selection. I finished to the silence of the congregation being broken only by the hurriedly passing of the offering plate on the left side of the auditorium. Remember I said hardwood floors, well I guess someone on this side got in a hurry. The next sound heard over the entire building was a metal offering tray apparently full of coins as it hit the oak floors and scatter change the length of the building. Amid the laughter that ensued the only thing I could think to do was return to a seated position at the piano and begin playing my solo again. This only added to the spectacle, which I heard about for a very long time to follow.
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My name is Jim or Jimmy and there is a very interesting story about how I got my name. It all started the morning of December 7th, 1966, my birthday, and involved an unusual string of events.
This was not my due date by another 6 weeks so it was a great surprise to everyone when I decided to expedite my arrival and begin my push for the new world. When labor pains began my mom called for my dad to come home from work and take her to the hospital in Winchester. He arrived quickly and must have been very excited because he didn’t realize he was nearly out of gas in the car until he started down King Street to make the corner to head north on route 11. The corner BP station was open so dad decided instead of running out of gas he would make the pit stop for fuel. He over shot his entrance and managed to sideswipe one of the fuel pumps. This immobilized his vehicle as it hop the curb and the small fire that followed brought even more disarray.
The car perched on the fuel island; he called on a friend with a tow truck while the station manager was extinguishing the fire. Once Jimmy Gillinwater arrive from Gillinwater’s Towing the car was dislodged and pulled to the side. Mom still needing to get to the hospital the only immediately available transportation was, you guessed it, the tow truck. The trip continued from the BP station and she may have been the first woman to arrive at Winchester Medical center via tow truck. For all of his assistance my parents felt the only thing they could do was make me Jimmy’s namesake.