Definition of BRIGADOON

:  a place that is idyllic, unaffected by time, or remote from reality

Once't upon a time, in a place faraway, there was a village located along a riverbank, then as now, lined with willows and water maples, its evolutionary history shrouded in the mists of time.  

It probably began life as an encampment of shanty boats, a haven for slave catchers and other undesirables.

You’ll not find it on a map.  Not even in its heyday, but, it was there.  A remnant still exists but every year finds it less and one day, like fabled Brigadoon, it and all the people will be gone and, soon after, there won’t even be a memory.

When I was there, it was called Beattyville.  Not officially.  Officially it was part of an area  called South Portsmouth that sort of skirted by it.  But, back then, everyone knew that Beattyville was, well, Beattyville.  And in that time and in that place, that was enough.

I don’t wish to be misunderstood.  It was never a bright, shining Camelot of a place except, maybe to the kids. And kids, then as now, exist in a kind of magical time and space continuum that disappears at some point and only lives in fragmented memories ever after.

Beattyville was a between kind of place, between poverty and wealth, between the railroad and the river, and the unpaved streets were gravel and cinder, connected by narrow alleyways that were also gravel and cinder. 

In the middle of the village, the homes were four to a block but on the edges, circumstance dictated the size and shape of the lots.

The houses, for the most part, were kept neat and clean, separated by fences and hedges, the lawns mowed and tree trunks whitewashed.

Most everyone had a  garden.  They were called Victory Gardens in that time because the country was at war.  Of course, most people had gardens before the war but  then, of course, they were just gardens, much as today.

But, we had Victory Gardens and tin can and paper drives and women saved the grease and turned it in to the markets for the war effort. Gas and tires were rationed and hard to get.  Those who had cars shared. There wasn’t any bus service so most people walked. 

There were only a few telephones in the village and those were also shared.  There was a great feeling of community in the village and even if you didn’t like someone, when there was a problem, the whole village stepped up to help.

There were two churches in that little village and they stand today though at some point, if they aren’t moved, the mighty Ohio River will simply take them away. 

The Methodist Church, which my family attended, and the Christian Church. In my memory, ‘most everyone in the village went to the Methodist Church, in that long ago day, the Southern Methodist Church.  Those who didn’t attend the Methodist Church must have inevitably attended the Christian Church. 

Now, in my adult awareness, I recognize that is a faulty memory, that people went elsewhere or not at all.  Much like today.  

Things change over time, but basically, intrinsically, people are people and they pretty much stay the same, thank God, no matter what.

But, as the man in the movie said, “When legend becomes fact, print the legend.” 

Faulty memories are all that any of us have, and like the brief, shining moment that was Camelot, I prefer my faulty memories of a once upon a time Beattyville…..Justin Other Smith