Grant McGuire: Happy Days lived on in Ashland after the 1950s – Huntington Herald Dispatch
In 1969 I lived on top of the hill in Ashland overlooking the Ohio River. On school days in ninth grade, I would run downhill through the woods on a shortcut to school, holding on to small trees to make sure I didn’t tumble.
I’d meet my buddy to walk to school for breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, sausage, fried apples and milk. All for a nickel. It was good to get there early to socialize, but oatmeal was fabulous and worth the effort regardless. We sat with friends on the second level of the cafeteria and felt like kings surveying our domain. I didn’t realize that breakfast was subsidized and most did not have to pay for food and thankfully they didn’t know either.
I was fascinated by those who didn’t come from “Leave It to Beaver” households, and I made friends easily with them. They had such colorful lives. Our basketball team had some hard-living types. Many didn’t make it to adulthood or even ninth grade. One was killed in his early 20s in a car wreck in Harlan County. Another was shot dead on the street between his college football seasons. Two other teammates left school midyear to work in the Pennsylvania coal mines.
Another classmate was a colorful throwback to the 1950s greaser days. Gay Gay accessorized with leather jacket, T-shirt and DA hairstyle. He drove an old Cadillac to school because he’d been held back enough times to get his license. Gay Gay was a real life Fonzie from Happy Days. He was friendly and always telling stories about girls and cars that were beyond our experience.
I first met Gay Gay in detention hall the year before. Often we were the only two there. I was quiet as I was supposed to be. Gay Gay was gregarious, always talking to me and the young teacher in charge. He had the confidence to flirt with her and ask her out for a date in front of me. She paid him no mind.
Gay Gay was in his element at Friday night dances. In the middle of the evening he’d start dancing with his trademark grinding. This offended the school administrator who gave a nod to the security police to drag Gay Gay out of the building. It was the entertainment highlight of the dance and everybody performed their roles — Gay Gay danced, the principal administered justice and the policeman executed the sentence.
On Saturdays I hung out at Mays Donut Shop to play pinball. If I scored high enough, I’d get a free game but rarely did. At lunch, factory workers played an hour on a nickel to win ten free games which they’d sell to me for a quarter before going back to work. Those were old machines bumped with hips and hands to steer the pinball but not so hard as to tilt. The haze of cigarette smoke couldn’t be smelled over the sweet aroma of freshly glazed donuts that carried out the door and across the street. Happy Days indeed.