The next year we had a new driver. Evidently he didn’t have a chicken house because left the door open when he parked the bus at his house and it wasn’t uncommon for us to have to clean chicken poop off the seats before we sat down. Occasionally, an egg or two would come rolling from the back of the bus when he put on the brakes.

One day when an egg came tumbling by, Johnny snatched it up and tossed it out the window at the first vehicle we met. The principle was waiting for us when we arrived at school that morning, paddle in hand.

Johnny was such a challenge the driver made him sit in the front seat where he could keep an eye on him. Johnny was also our flag boy. When the bus stopped for children that were on the opposite side of the road, Johnny got out, walked to the front of the bus and held out a little red flag on a stick to warn the oncoming traffic to stop. By doing that he also earned a free lunch in the cafeteria. It may have been his only meal of the day.

Even though Johnny was rough around the edges there was something about the kid I couldn’t help but like. Perhaps it was his spunk. He was always up for a challenge.

Like the time he found that bottle of whiskey that was in the toolbox beneath the front seat where he sat.

It was most likely the driver’s private stash so his wife couldn’t find it. Well, that day it found a new home in Johnny’s coat pocket. I asked him what it tasted like the next day when I got on the bus. He smiled and said, “Not too bad.”

The second year a new rider was on the bus when I walked down the aisle. It was the cute little girl that lived down Shiloh Road. I had known her all my life, but now that she was a first grader, she looked prettier than ever. Especially when she wore her Brownie Scout uniform.

Every time I could, I saved her a seat. I was smitten and I was beginning to notice there was a difference between boys and girls. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but there was just something about them that fascinated me.

By the time I had reached third grade the fun stuff was over. I had mastered coloring between the lines, knew how to count and could write my name. Evidently that wasn’t enough. I had to learn how to add, subtract, multiply and divide. I thought they were pushing it with all that, then for some odd reason they threw in geography, science and history, too.

My ADHD was getting worse. I can’t say Mrs. Fancher wasn’t fair, she was and she gave me every chance in the world. If a kid was misbehaving she’d write their name on the chalkboard. If they were disruptive again she’d put a mark beside their name. When someone had five marks beside their name she spanked them.

I really didn’t mind her spankings that much. She’d broken her arm the year before whipping a kid that was as bad as me and she was afraid to hit too hard. She didn’t want to break her arm again.

When it became evident the spankings weren’t going to work and getting an F in deportment on my report card did no good, she came up with plan D. She pulled my desk up to the front of the room and had me sit by her.

In only three short years I had accomplished what my two older brothers hadn’t. I had made it to the top of the class.

It was along about that time that our church went through a major renovation. A bell tower was added, the brick was changed from a tan color to red and the sanctuary had a major overhaul. They flipped it around.

During the many months all of that was taking place our congregation held its worship services at The Strand Theatre, half a block away. Sitting in the movie theater with the aroma of popcorn and Coke still freshly stomped into the floor gave me an idea for a new communion menu, but no one I told seemed to be interested. I suppose it’s hard to change a menu after two thousand years.

My best guess is that someone on the building committee must have remembered the Sunday I lost my marbles while I was sitting on the back row and they rolled along the floor until they made it to the altar.

The new sanctuary was flipped around so the pulpit was on the opposite side of the building and the floor was flat and carpeted. If a marble hit that floor it wouldn’t roll anyway and no one would hear a thing.

There was no more birdwatching or ducking wasps after the renovation. We had central heat and air-conditioning. My father volunteered to ring that big bell in the tower between Sunday school and the worship hour.

So for some odd reason I was prohibited from going up there with him. I can’t imagine why.

As it turned out, not only was I born in the Strand Theatre building, it was also responsible for my first hair-cut, it was a place of worship for me, I took my first date there and I learned to shoot pool there when my uncle operated a pool hall on the upper floor. I love that building.

Summertime on the farm always meant a lot of our cousins would be coming to the country to play and go on adventures. We made a lot of memories together.

One such memory was the time my mother’s cousin, Earle, brought with him his latest acquisition from an army surplus store in Birmingham.

It was a flare gun. One of those, that military personnel fired into the sky in the event of an emergency.

My father wasn’t very thrilled when Earle pulled it out of the trunk of his car. Daddy had been in the army and knew exactly what that thing was capable of. However, he didn’t want to disappoint Earle or all of us kids that were eager to watch him shoot it into sky over the hayfield beside our house.

With nearly twenty family members looking on, Earle pointed the gun heavenward and pulled the trigger.

FOOOOOMP! The flare was launched high into the air where the ignition device detonated, a tiny parachute deployed and it floated gently to earth. By the time it hit the ground the flare had extinguished and cooled off.

Every child in the clan galloped out into the recently mowed hayfield to claim the parachute as their own. It was almost a free-for-all, but the fastest kid got to keep it.

Then Earle reared back and launched another one. Up, up, up it went into the sky. All eyes were on its trajectory and every child was at ready to run out there and snatch that parachute up when it made it back to earth.

But the unforeseen happened. Doesn’t it always?

The flare popped and ignited far, far up in the heavens, but the little parachute malfunctioned and did not deploy. I heard Daddy say, “Uh-oh.”

We watched as a small fireball quickly descended back to earth, bounced into a patch of dry grass and caught fire. The kids froze in place. However, every grownup in the crowd took off running, trying to beat out the fires that were quickly spreading across the field.

Somehow, they managed to stomp out all the little fires and get things under control again.

Daddy looked at Earle, didn’t say a word and pointed towards his car. That was the end of that adventure.

(To be continued)

Terry, Me, and Tonny.	Front left to right; Me, Tonny, Terry. Back Left to right; Alice Cockrell Foster my maternal grandmother, Corrie Bennett Algood my paternal grandmother.
One of our rare family portraits that was taken on a Sunday afternoon while we were visiting a hog and cattle farm near Starkville.	This is where John Fair Oil Company is presently located.
Located on North Church Street. There was a gas station on its right that stood on the corner.	This was our barn. When the highway was improved and paved in the late 50s the east part of it ended up being a foot over the right-of-way. My father removed the boards on the outside of the east side and sawed off the violating part, then replaced the boards. That is why is always looked a little wonky on one side.
Front row left to right; Irene Cockrell Newman, her son Clinton, Alice Cockrell Foster, Amanda Arledge Cockrell, Ina Cockrell Tabor, Newman daughter.	This picture hung in my grandmother's bedroom in the back of our house. For a small child it was the stuff or nightmares when viewed from a distance.

_______________
Rick Algood
August 30, 2021