We’ve all heard from generations ago the stories of how Grandpa walked 10 miles to school every day, uphill both ways, with no shoes, in 3 feet of snow (at least in Yankee-land).

They are stories unbelievable in today’s world or yesterday’s, but here’s another one. Only, it’s told for truth.

Johnny Griffin, who grew up near Redwood, was a member of the tight-knit “Mill Row Gang,” a group of boys and girls who roamed the hills and hollows from Chickasaw Bluffs to Thompson Lake.

The term “gang” is loosely used, members say, compared with today’s connotation of a gang. Gangs today are associated with mayhem and violence, while Griffin’s kind more resembles the one of “The Little Rascals.” Their stomping ground was North Washington Street, from the present-day intersection with U.S. 61 North south for two miles.

Three mills along the stretch — a stave mill, a heading mill and a hoop mill — provided desperately needed jobs in Depression-era Warren County. The Kings Stave Mill employed most of the gang member’s fathers.

Selby “Sonny Boy” Parker, at 75 an accomplished author and mill historian, lived above the mill store run by his father.

“It really was the best time of my life,” said Parker, who penned two books — “The Man From Bandera” and “The Camel Boy, a novel about the Civil War” — with stories of his childhood filtering through the books. He uses the characterization of one of the gang’s members, Clyde Sigur, in both books.

Clyde, a black Creole from New Orleans, instantly made friends with the gang when his family moved here.

He had one of the two bikes in the neighborhood. He also worked was the master tinkerer who could fix bicycles, especially brakes, with ease. Earl Martin, one of the funniest of the bunch, was the only other member to have a bike. The rest begged and cajoled their way onto the handlebars for rides.

On school days, though, when most of the kids headed to nearby Redwood School, Clyde went miles south into Vicksburg to attend St. Mary’s Catholic School. His Creole ancestry, which included some African-American, kept him from attending Redwood.

“I can remember seeing the bus come up here and turn around right near the houses,” said Billy Bishop, 75. “It would head toward town, and Clyde would grab onto the back of that thing and ride almost all the way into town.”

In his teens, Clyde moved back to Louisiana, joined the military and became a brick mason until his retirement. Parker tracked him down after 62 years and has kept in contact since.

Parker’s contact with Clyde, and several childhood photos of the gang, which was open to blacks and whites, boys and girls, and even a trusty dog Rusty, led to a gathering Monday of four at Thompson Lake, the home of gang member Billy Bishop.

Griffin, and his brother, local barber Phares Griffin, lived two doors from Billy, and their fathers worked side-by-side at the mill.

The men traded stories and compared their lives to those of children today. Completely different, they agreed.

They rarely were in trouble. The consequences of getting into trouble came upon arriving at home after their daddies had heard. They were outside all day every day if they could be, always without shoes.

“We would get home from school, and the first thing we would do is take off our shoes and go outside,” Johnny said.

They climbed the bluffs, swam in Chickasaw Creek and Thompson Lake, played baseball and even once stole a watermelon. The owner, though, watched the boys slither on their stomachs through the patch to the largest melon. A shotgun blast skyward ended the great watermelon heist — at least until the boys returned home.

They were forced to apologize and forced to pay for the stolen watermelon.

Air conditioning in the summer? Forget it. Staying indoors was not an option. Most of the houses had small screened-in porches and all the windows were left open.

Indoor plumbing was unheard of and each of the houses on the row had an outhouse.

In the winter in the Griffins’ house, Phares and Johnny fought for the only heat provided for the one bed they shared — an iron wrapped in a blanket and placed at the children’s feet.

A treat consisted of a spare nickel for an Almond Joy candy bar, or a Baby Ruth. A quarter got them a roundtrip bus fare from the mill road to Vicksburg, a movie ticket for 15 cents and a treat with the remaining nickel.

They were members of one of the first uniformed baseball teams in Warren County, representing Oakes Auto Parts for years.

The stories could fill several books. And certainly the Mill Row Gang was not the only group of country boys to share kindred summer spirits and wander the same areas. Like many, these men still recall pieces of their childhood with precision, even wagering a friendly $5 over from which high school a certain girl graduated 63 years ago.

Some of the stories might have been embellished with age, but the roots of their experiences are there — experiences that those in the iPod generation or even those in the two televisions-per-house generation could hardly fathom as fact.

As Parker wrote at the end of an email: “If only life could be so innocent for children today growing up scaling the Chickasaw Bluffs, swimming in Chickasaw Creek, Thompson Lake or pilfering a watermelon from time to time on a summer’s eve.”