I think that Brown’s Branch was
sort of considered the unofficial northeastern limit of
the Pacolet Mills Community. It flowed into the Pacolet
River on the north side below the Old Mill (Mill No. 3).
It was not very wide nor deep. I am not sure why some
small streams are named “Branches” and others just like
them are named “Creeks” but so it was. It was always
surprising, particularly in the hot summertime, at the
drastic temperature change in going down the hill to
cross the branch. It was like the area was air
conditioned and there must have been at least a 10
degree difference to the normal temperature away from
the branch.
However, the most noteworthy thing about Brown’s Branch
in the 1940’s and 50’s was the small iron bridge across
it. The bridge was on the highway between Pacolet and
Gaffney and is today known as Hwy 150. And small is the
right word to describe it. It was only about 30 feet
long and had only one lane. It was so narrow that cars
could not pass on it. One had to wait until the other
car had crossed until they could proceed.
This narrow one lane bridge gave me one of the most
terrifying moments of my teenage years. I must have been
about 15 years old and was driving back to Pacolet Mills
from Cherokee County. My Dad was in front of me driving
his truck and I was following him in our family car.
This car was a heavy 1947 Lincoln with a 12 cylinder
motor. It was so heavy that we often had brake problems
with it.
There is a long incline at least a mile long leading
down to the bridge and a car could build up quite a bit
of speed even if just coasting. I realized that my car
was speeding up as I was going down the incline and I
tried to slow it down. I pushed in the brake pedal and
it went all the way down to the floorboard. Nothing - no
brakes at all. Becoming frantic by this time, I
furiously pumped the brakes with absolutely no results.
The car was gaining speed and the one lane Brown’s
Branch bridge was getting closer.
I came in sight of the bridge as I rounded the curve at
Spakes store. The car was going very fast and there was
a car on the bridge coming towards me and one or two in
line behind it. Fortunately, off on the right side of
the road there was an open, fairly flat area. Having no
other choice, I drove into that open area and was
probably doing 50 or 60 miles per hour when I left the
road in a great cloud of dust. I steered in a big circle
somewhat like you see celebrating NASCAR divers do today
in “cutting doughnuts”. They do it for joy, I did it out
of panic. After going around in 2 or 3 circles, the car
came to a stop and I was able to breathe again.
My Dad came back to check on me. He was not very
excitable about those kind of things. He said something
like “Well you did the right thing, we’ll have to fix
those brakes.”
About 200 or 300 yards downstream from the bridge, a
small stream flowed in to the branch. On its way to the
branch this stream flowed behind Spakes store and under
a little bridge on what is today known as Colony Road
. In the late 1930’s this little stream was dammed
just below the bridge to make a sizeable pond. On the
weekends many men and boys would come to swim in this
pond. My Dad took me there about 1940, when I was 3
years old and I can remember it clearly. I had never
seen people swim before and the memory has stayed with
me.
