Were you to ask Jerry Brooks if he's lived here all his life, he'd probably toss out a laugh and say, "Nope. Not yet!"

He's like that, this cordial and enormously talented man. He's Alleghany born and raised, but that describes only the where of his life. The what runs much deeper.

Jerry went to N.C. State University more than a few years back. He's a good neighbor and trusted friend for a lot of people. He was as a kid, too, and enjoys telling tales of the simpler life back then.

He and a schoolyard buddy rode their bikes wherever they could pedal them. The uphills were tough, but a certain downhill run would soon be a lot more exciting for the buddy. You see, the coaster brake on his bike was missing a critical bolt and nut that fastened it to the bike's rear frame. Ignoring Jerry's earlier warning of the problem, the kid just laughed and chased his wiser pal down the hill.

"I heard him hollering," Jerry recalls, "and glanced back over my shoulder. Here he came, dragging his feet and plowing up dirt and gravel as he tried to slow down! He swooped into a big ditch, then popped back out on the other side. When he finally stopped, the soles of both shoes flapped from arch to toe. Jagged rocks had shredded the stitches holding them on."

The boy's father must have thought the terrifying ride wasn't quite enough punishment for destroying brand-new tennis shoes, so the kid had to wear them to school for a week, with soles flapping like a cow's tongue.

Jerry and the late Herbert Woodruff were friends, too. The man taught his youthful apprentice how to make small helicopters from an old sewing-thread spool, two nails and a tin propeller. Since the toys were sold to kids for 50 cents apiece, sharing his secrets could have cost the teacher some pocket change.

Mr. Woodruff was the county's electrical inspector, but for some time his electricity came from his own skills and not the usual source. The inventive toy maker piped water from a nearby spring, using its energy to spin a small waterwheel and generator. The device produced about 36 volts, which lit the home's only electrical device — a 40-watt bulb hanging above the kitchen table.

In another remembered example, that frugality demonstrated his having grown up with very few of the things we take for granted. One day he asked his wife, Ellie, if she'd like an orange. When she said she would, he cut one in half and shared it with her. The old adage, "Use it up, wear it out; make it last, or do without," had been taken to heart.

In addition to running a small farm that included one hump of Bullhead Mountain, he maintained Roaring Gap's small fleet of battery-powered boats. The batteries, tools, and hardware required traveled in the trunk of Mr. Woodruff's black, 1950-something Ford sedan. On more than one occasion, the car's heavily-weighted rear end caused State Troopers to pull him over, suspecting that he was hauling a trunkload of moonshine.

Jerry has shouldered several responsibilities in the county, including a 10-year stint as training officer for the Cherry Lane Volunteer Fire Department, which he helped start. On an especially bitter winter's night, a fire broke out at Marion's Ham House. The Cherry Lane volunteers responded with a drop tank for use as a backup water source, but the four-degree temperature froze it quickly. A nearby creek was thick with ice, so Jerry disconnected the hoses and drove the truck to the deserted Glade Valley School, where he found one hydrant that still worked. With the tank refilled, he charged back to the fire. Meanwhile, a fireman tried to fight the blaze from a different angle, swinging the Department's newly-refinished fire axe at a window. The tool's head flew off and sailed into the fire. Around the burning building, another firefighter was about to step inside when a comrade grabbed his coat and held on tightly. His next step would have dropped him through a burned-out floor and into the basement several feet below! Jerry doesn't fight fires anymore, but he still loves to mess with bicycles. Last year, numerous repair parts crowded him out of his five-by-fifteen-foot work area and into another building. Now it's full, too, but he can find even the smallest bolt or tool in just minutes.

Some of his bikes are unusual. One is a 1938 Shelby Supreme, with fenders, tank, and headlight. That comparative dinosaur weighs 50 pounds in a world of modern, high-tech models that often go less than 17. Even a new, 21-speed, eight foot-long, tandem "bicycle built for two" is lighter.

Jerry's a man of these mountains, hip-deep in a hobby run wild! His kind and gentle nature reflects the very best our area has to offer. If you doubt it, just go watch him turn a car-crushed bike into a little boy's treasure.