Coming Soon: The Bingo Parlor...gray hair tinted by cigarette smoke becomes blue hair.
The Importance of Being Garst
I confess. I have an unusual fascination with the Garst Family, one of Roanoke’s pioneer families. I suspect that this curiosity goes back to my childhood days. I was born on Garstland, Dr. in Roanoke, Virginia back in 1960. From those earliest times, my life has been intertwined with Garst’s.
Garstland Drive supposedly is named for the Garst family. One branch of their family ran a grist mill on Mason’s Creek, not far from my house while another branch ran the Garst Brothers Dairy, Roanoke’s largest dairy earlier last century.
My home was on a street that dead-ended at a wide pasture. The land was all owned by “Old Man Garst.” I never knew his first name, but I suspect it was Samuel. Mr. Garst was a person to be feared in my youth. All kinds of lore rose among the neighborhood children about him. My older brothers and other kids around had tales telling of times when Old Man Garst would come out of his two-story white farmhouse and pepper kids with buckshot for trespassing in his fields. Being a naturally fearful person, I was terrified of him. I personally only dared gaze upon him when hiding behind a tree as he would sometimes drive slowly by in his ancient, green Chevy pick-up. Old Man Garst was a wrinkled, withered man with denim overalls and no teeth. His shotgun was always at the ready as he puttered around his farm tending his horses, cows, and chickens while spitting a trail of tobacco juice.
Despite the fear, or perhaps because of it, I used to roam the pasture and explore its treasures. Within this 30 acre tract, there were three structures that I remember situated between two hills with a gentle brook running slowly to Peter’s Creek. This idyllic valley was filled with sweet grass and the beginnings of a scrub forest of cedar, Virginia pine, paradise trees, and blackberry briars. Rabbits roamed freely along with plodding turtles and the occasional snake (always assumed to be poisonous...but most likely not)
The structures were points of fascination. Old Man Garst’s house, itself, was situated on the other side of the hill from the main valley. It was a two story white farmhouse that seemed to be in a state of some hard times. Even though it was a tall structure, the top of the house did not offer a view of the pasture on the other side of the hill. So he was not afforded a view of any trespassers on his property. This was a good thing, because we were always there. We just made a point to not stray too close to his chicken shed.
On the hillside along the brook near the west end of this tract was an abandoned two story house. My father says that people lived there until the early 1960’s, but I only knew it as “The Haunted House,” completely abandoned and in a state of ruin. I never ventured there, but I always fanaticized about going up those long front wooden steps and through the broken banging front screen door and into the broken glass filled home interior. I wondered what treasure I might find in the rubble. We were told that the house had been Old Man Garst’s birthplace. I further believed that if I went too close to that place, something bad would happen to me.
The most fascinating structure on the property was located across the brook from the main farmhouse and out in the middle of the field. It was the old Lackey house. The story was that the Lackey’s ran the Garst farm back in the 1850’s and they lived in the small wooden structure in the middle of the main pasture. Descendents of the Lackey’s still lived at the end of Garstland Drive, and that’s where I heard that part of the story.
I used to love exploring that structure. The main building had pretty much collapsed on itself with only two stone chimneys and piles of household debris left behind. If you looked carefully, you could find old broken plates and coffee cups along with chunks of broken blue glass. Attached to the main structure was a unique springhouse. It was an open concrete bunker surrounding a place where water bubbled to the surface and trickled down to the brook. We enjoyed hanging out here capturing crawl-dads. Of course, we knew that if you crushed a big crawl-dad on rocks you could find a pearl in their head. So we spent a lot of time searching for riches in this manner. That old house was the scene of my childhood’s darkest memory, however.
One day we were playing basketball at a vacant lot on the dead-end of the street when two boys, Billy and Pat, decided to go mess around in the old Lackey house. Sometime later, we all heard a ground-shaking boom, and we saw a cloud of dust rise. Next thing we knew, Billy was running through the pasture towards us yelling, “Pat’s dead! Pat’s Dead! PAT’S DEAD!” “The chimney fell on him! Oh my God!”
Immediately, we all leaped into action. My older brother directed me to go to the nearest house and call an ambulance. The rest went with him to the house and began digging through the rubble of chimney rocks. I made it up there just in time to see them uncover Pat’s bloody arm then his bloody legs. They kept digging furiously and finally uncovered his head, also a mass of blood. The great news in this whole tragedy was that Pat was still alive and conscious. He was moaning and incoherent. They got him uncovered just as the ambulance approached. Pat was loaded up and taken away. After months in the hospital, Pat was able to come home, but he was never the same. He had fractured and dented his skull, plus he had broken most of his limbs. We never saw much of Pat after that day.
That field also served our recreation needs in the winter time. In times of decent snow, we’d all gather in the field, on the other side of the hill from Old Man Garst’s house and sleigh ride all day and deep into the night. We’d burn a tire for warmth as we made run after run on our Flexible Flyers. I always wondered why Old Man Garst never came out to chase us away. Now that I’m older, I suspect that Old Man Garst probably wasn’t the ogre I imagined him to be. One sled run was called “Suicide Run.” It darted down the steepest part of the hill down towards the brook. You had to snake the sled at high speed through scrub growth and briars. Then you’d launch the sled over the lip of the cave and crash onto the pasture below. If you didn’t crash, you’d most likely end up in the cold brook.
The cave. This playground came with a variety of haunts from houses to its very own cave. It really wasn’t much of a cave. The opening in the hillside was about four feet, but I believe that the opening has since closed. I personally only dared go into it once with my friend. We had been told that when Old Man Garst was younger, he used to run shine back in the 30’s. The story was that the cave was the secret entrance to his underground laboratory. We were convinced that the cave led right under the abandoned Garst home on the west side of the property. We also were told that Old Man Garst’s old bootleg running truck was still parked down in the secret chamber of that cave.
So one day, my friend and I went out in search of the truck and the passage to the house. We took flashlights and left a rope trail. Just after we climbed into the dark opening and dropped down about four feet to a muddy and sharp rock filled cave floor, I had immediate doubts about the story. We crouched down and began mucking our way into the darkness. Almost immediately the passage shrank to the point that we found ourselves crawling through the mud and over the sharp rocks. Sharp rocks attacked my head. Sharp rocks and mud assaulted the softer parts of my body. My friend insisted that the chamber was bound to open up any time and we’d be able to stroll into the basement of the abandoned house. With fear overcoming poor judgment, I finally had had enough and turned around, forcing my brave friend to come with me. Even he, despite being the most reckless person I knew, had no desire to go this alone. We never found out if the bootlegging story was true or not, but we did spend many more happy days chasing rabbits in that field.
Many years later, I was at a teaching conference in Harrisonburg, and I struck up a conversation with one of the vendors. It turns out that the man was Samuel Garst, son of “Old Man Garst.” He helped put a more human face on his father for me. Later still, I stumbled across a Garst family website and a piece about “The Old Garst Fort” (the words Old and Garst just seem to naturally go together). In that piece they talk about one of the early Garst’s in the Roanoke/Botetourt area. His name was Frederick Garst, SR, and there were many tales about him. Here’s one that the article’s author, Betty Crawford Garst wrote up.
“The "tale" about how he came to be called ‘Indian Garst’ is also often written about. There are several different versions. This is one:
He was on a bluff above Mason’s Creek splitting a log, when he was surrounded by six Indians. They said they were going to kill him. He could speak the language, so he told them he would go with them if they would help him finish splitting the log. He asked them to get three on each side, put their fingers in the crack and pull. As they pulled, he knocked out a wedge closing the log on their fingers. He then killed them with his ax and went home.
It is unlikely it ever happened. When he came to the Roanoke Valley in the 1790's, there had been no reports of Indian sightings or raids in the valley since the Revolution. He was still in Pennsylvania in the 1780's. Records show that he was serving in the Pennsylvania Militia in 1781. His son Frederick, Jr. was born there is 1784. He is first found on Botetourt County tax lists in 1796. Nicholas and Abraham are on the tax lists in 1791 and Jacob is found on a tax list in 1793 for the first time.”
After reading that tale about the wedge log killing, it occurred to me that that story probably came from a group of kids sitting around talking on a boring rainy day, much the same way that the tales of Old Man Garst came from the friends of my youth. Will tomorrow’s kids have their own folklore?
Garstland Drive supposedly is named for the Garst family. One branch of their family ran a grist mill on Mason’s Creek, not far from my house while another branch ran the Garst Brothers Dairy, Roanoke’s largest dairy earlier last century.
My home was on a street that dead-ended at a wide pasture. The land was all owned by “Old Man Garst.” I never knew his first name, but I suspect it was Samuel. Mr. Garst was a person to be feared in my youth. All kinds of lore rose among the neighborhood children about him. My older brothers and other kids around had tales telling of times when Old Man Garst would come out of his two-story white farmhouse and pepper kids with buckshot for trespassing in his fields. Being a naturally fearful person, I was terrified of him. I personally only dared gaze upon him when hiding behind a tree as he would sometimes drive slowly by in his ancient, green Chevy pick-up. Old Man Garst was a wrinkled, withered man with denim overalls and no teeth. His shotgun was always at the ready as he puttered around his farm tending his horses, cows, and chickens while spitting a trail of tobacco juice.
Despite the fear, or perhaps because of it, I used to roam the pasture and explore its treasures. Within this 30 acre tract, there were three structures that I remember situated between two hills with a gentle brook running slowly to Peter’s Creek. This idyllic valley was filled with sweet grass and the beginnings of a scrub forest of cedar, Virginia pine, paradise trees, and blackberry briars. Rabbits roamed freely along with plodding turtles and the occasional snake (always assumed to be poisonous...but most likely not)
The structures were points of fascination. Old Man Garst’s house, itself, was situated on the other side of the hill from the main valley. It was a two story white farmhouse that seemed to be in a state of some hard times. Even though it was a tall structure, the top of the house did not offer a view of the pasture on the other side of the hill. So he was not afforded a view of any trespassers on his property. This was a good thing, because we were always there. We just made a point to not stray too close to his chicken shed.
On the hillside along the brook near the west end of this tract was an abandoned two story house. My father says that people lived there until the early 1960’s, but I only knew it as “The Haunted House,” completely abandoned and in a state of ruin. I never ventured there, but I always fanaticized about going up those long front wooden steps and through the broken banging front screen door and into the broken glass filled home interior. I wondered what treasure I might find in the rubble. We were told that the house had been Old Man Garst’s birthplace. I further believed that if I went too close to that place, something bad would happen to me.
The most fascinating structure on the property was located across the brook from the main farmhouse and out in the middle of the field. It was the old Lackey house. The story was that the Lackey’s ran the Garst farm back in the 1850’s and they lived in the small wooden structure in the middle of the main pasture. Descendents of the Lackey’s still lived at the end of Garstland Drive, and that’s where I heard that part of the story.
I used to love exploring that structure. The main building had pretty much collapsed on itself with only two stone chimneys and piles of household debris left behind. If you looked carefully, you could find old broken plates and coffee cups along with chunks of broken blue glass. Attached to the main structure was a unique springhouse. It was an open concrete bunker surrounding a place where water bubbled to the surface and trickled down to the brook. We enjoyed hanging out here capturing crawl-dads. Of course, we knew that if you crushed a big crawl-dad on rocks you could find a pearl in their head. So we spent a lot of time searching for riches in this manner. That old house was the scene of my childhood’s darkest memory, however.
One day we were playing basketball at a vacant lot on the dead-end of the street when two boys, Billy and Pat, decided to go mess around in the old Lackey house. Sometime later, we all heard a ground-shaking boom, and we saw a cloud of dust rise. Next thing we knew, Billy was running through the pasture towards us yelling, “Pat’s dead! Pat’s Dead! PAT’S DEAD!” “The chimney fell on him! Oh my God!”
Immediately, we all leaped into action. My older brother directed me to go to the nearest house and call an ambulance. The rest went with him to the house and began digging through the rubble of chimney rocks. I made it up there just in time to see them uncover Pat’s bloody arm then his bloody legs. They kept digging furiously and finally uncovered his head, also a mass of blood. The great news in this whole tragedy was that Pat was still alive and conscious. He was moaning and incoherent. They got him uncovered just as the ambulance approached. Pat was loaded up and taken away. After months in the hospital, Pat was able to come home, but he was never the same. He had fractured and dented his skull, plus he had broken most of his limbs. We never saw much of Pat after that day.
That field also served our recreation needs in the winter time. In times of decent snow, we’d all gather in the field, on the other side of the hill from Old Man Garst’s house and sleigh ride all day and deep into the night. We’d burn a tire for warmth as we made run after run on our Flexible Flyers. I always wondered why Old Man Garst never came out to chase us away. Now that I’m older, I suspect that Old Man Garst probably wasn’t the ogre I imagined him to be. One sled run was called “Suicide Run.” It darted down the steepest part of the hill down towards the brook. You had to snake the sled at high speed through scrub growth and briars. Then you’d launch the sled over the lip of the cave and crash onto the pasture below. If you didn’t crash, you’d most likely end up in the cold brook.
The cave. This playground came with a variety of haunts from houses to its very own cave. It really wasn’t much of a cave. The opening in the hillside was about four feet, but I believe that the opening has since closed. I personally only dared go into it once with my friend. We had been told that when Old Man Garst was younger, he used to run shine back in the 30’s. The story was that the cave was the secret entrance to his underground laboratory. We were convinced that the cave led right under the abandoned Garst home on the west side of the property. We also were told that Old Man Garst’s old bootleg running truck was still parked down in the secret chamber of that cave.
So one day, my friend and I went out in search of the truck and the passage to the house. We took flashlights and left a rope trail. Just after we climbed into the dark opening and dropped down about four feet to a muddy and sharp rock filled cave floor, I had immediate doubts about the story. We crouched down and began mucking our way into the darkness. Almost immediately the passage shrank to the point that we found ourselves crawling through the mud and over the sharp rocks. Sharp rocks attacked my head. Sharp rocks and mud assaulted the softer parts of my body. My friend insisted that the chamber was bound to open up any time and we’d be able to stroll into the basement of the abandoned house. With fear overcoming poor judgment, I finally had had enough and turned around, forcing my brave friend to come with me. Even he, despite being the most reckless person I knew, had no desire to go this alone. We never found out if the bootlegging story was true or not, but we did spend many more happy days chasing rabbits in that field.
Many years later, I was at a teaching conference in Harrisonburg, and I struck up a conversation with one of the vendors. It turns out that the man was Samuel Garst, son of “Old Man Garst.” He helped put a more human face on his father for me. Later still, I stumbled across a Garst family website and a piece about “The Old Garst Fort” (the words Old and Garst just seem to naturally go together). In that piece they talk about one of the early Garst’s in the Roanoke/Botetourt area. His name was Frederick Garst, SR, and there were many tales about him. Here’s one that the article’s author, Betty Crawford Garst wrote up.
“The "tale" about how he came to be called ‘Indian Garst’ is also often written about. There are several different versions. This is one:
He was on a bluff above Mason’s Creek splitting a log, when he was surrounded by six Indians. They said they were going to kill him. He could speak the language, so he told them he would go with them if they would help him finish splitting the log. He asked them to get three on each side, put their fingers in the crack and pull. As they pulled, he knocked out a wedge closing the log on their fingers. He then killed them with his ax and went home.
It is unlikely it ever happened. When he came to the Roanoke Valley in the 1790's, there had been no reports of Indian sightings or raids in the valley since the Revolution. He was still in Pennsylvania in the 1780's. Records show that he was serving in the Pennsylvania Militia in 1781. His son Frederick, Jr. was born there is 1784. He is first found on Botetourt County tax lists in 1796. Nicholas and Abraham are on the tax lists in 1791 and Jacob is found on a tax list in 1793 for the first time.”
After reading that tale about the wedge log killing, it occurred to me that that story probably came from a group of kids sitting around talking on a boring rainy day, much the same way that the tales of Old Man Garst came from the friends of my youth. Will tomorrow’s kids have their own folklore?
7 comments:
Enjoyed your post. I'm a member of the Garst family you write about. Nathan Garst, not Samuel Garst, built both the houses on the property you are describing. He was my ggrandfather. Please get in touch with me as I'm interested in your recollections.
Yes, I remember the pasture, the sleigh riding and the bird hunting with BB guns on the Garst property. "Mr and Mrs. Garst were our neighbors, though I don't recall first names. We enjoyed visiting with them from time to time and eating cookies that Mrs. Garst made. For over 40 years we lived in a house that adjoined the Garst fields, built by members of the Garst family. The Garst were great people and neighbors. Bud and Nancy were good friends of my parents. And i can warmly say "Hello" to Elaine. We wish you well.
Rich Rardin
Taylors, SC
203-685 4705
Stumbled across some Garst family items browsing estate sales.
https://www.estatesales.net/VA/Roanoke/24017/2991033?force-reload=true
I am a descendant also. My maternal great grandmother's maiden name was either garst or some spelled it gharst. Idid the genealogy anout 23 years ago.
Oh, the story I heard was Indian got his name from holding down the fort by himself.
Thank you for this article. I lived on Springbrook road. My mother, Bebe was a registered nurse and someone came to get her when that chimney collapsed. I’d never seen my mother so upset until that day. I have fond memories of sleigh riding all from top of springbrook rd. I was just wondering if anyone else saw that cave back there. I never dared go in. Thanks for verifying I didn’t miss anything other than a great story and adventure. Did you ever see or hear about the UFO’s? One of the neighbors was the air traffic controller at Woodrum. His kids shared some interesting stories about UFO’S. My sister and I heard crazy beeping sounds outside probably about 4 am. Great area to grow up in. Thanks again. Martha Laster
I know this is an old article but I grew up in the 2 story white Garst house in the 70's. I have fond memories of that house.
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