I’ve recently written about our local history, so now please indulge me. Here are some memories of West Virginia, the state where I spent my formative years (1950-58). Most people know little about West Virginia beyond stereotypes (poor, coal country, hillbillies, drug addicts) and a joke or two (e.g. What’s the West Virginia state bird? Answer: The housefly. (I have more jokes, but Tina vetoed them.) Anyway, here goes:

Our family moved from Montclair, New Jersey to Parkersburg, West Virginia in January 1950, because of my dad’s job with DuPont. I was in the middle of my second grade year, which created a small problem: West Virginia schools began teaching script writing before New Jersey schools. Trauma time for this then-shy boy.

Speaking of education, most of my teachers were mediocre, burdened by small pay and passive students. My first male “role model” was a shop teacher named Mr. Prochaska, a grubby guy who wore thick glasses and kept a long paddle in his desk for punishing miscreants. My report card that year: eight A’s, one D (shop), and, thankfully, zero paddlings. On the bright side, my eighth grade English teacher Mrs. Morton taught sentence diagramming, which I loved; she sparked my passion for writing.

Parkersburg High School, with an enrollment of 3,000 students, had great football and basketball teams as well as the renowned Big Red Marching Band, which performed at Rose Bowl Parades and Inaugurations. Academics? Nah. Only about 30 percent of the seniors went on to college, and a mere handful ventured out of state. It wasn’t cool to be a good student in West Virginia in the 50’s, especially if you were male. It was, however, cool to go on a “Friday Night Special,” a train ride to another city to see a football game. I only went on one “Special,” but the word was that sketchy things happened on the train involving girls and booze.

My most memorable train trip was the one to Washington, DC and back for patrol leaders. One student slept walked off the train on the return trip and died. Everyone in the class had to attend the funeral; the mortician had adorned the boy with a ghastly red wig.

Okay, enough of the mediocre and macabre. Some good memories. Listening to Groucho Marx on “You Bet Your Life” with my grandmother. Shooting baskets in our backyard, even in winter when the ground was frozen. Playing golf — or baseball or countless other sports — with my younger brother Tony. Watching 50’s TV fare with my family: “I Love Lucy,” The $64,000 Question,” ‘Perry Mason,” etc. Walking to the corner store (Yeargo’s) to buy a creamsicle or a Three Musketeers bar. Eating Jujyfruits while watching Saturday morning westerns at the Smoot Theater, now listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Swimming in the huge city park pool. Playing Monopoly with my dad early on Saturday mornings, which prompted him to call me “Bird,” for being an early riser. Watching the Fourth of July fireworks display from the second tee of the ratty old golf course adjacent to our house. Going to Boy Scout camp, which meant two-weeks of independence, shaken only by the need to “patrol” the camp in the middle of the night, terrified by the possibility of meeting a wombat, which older scouts had mischievously warned us about.

Enough for now. It’s helpful for us older types to reflect upon where we came from — the good and the not so good. When Tina chides me about my West Virginia days, I remind her that her family moved from Darien, Connecticut to Lisbon Falls, Maine, in 1946. Case dismissed. On the brighter side, neither of us ever lived in Alabama.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. [email protected].