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Coming of Age in America
Part 32 |
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During my school years, students had become more and more involved in music. It was a gift I didn’t have. In junior high a few girls formed a group they called The Pinstripers. Their forte was folk music accompanied by a couple of ukuleles. Then some boys about my age formed a group called The Staggs. It was a short-lived group. During those years my oldest brother’s friends had a band called Little John and His Merry Men. That was a great band and lasted until they graduated in 1965 and they went their separate ways. While I was in high school some of my friends formed a band called CSR. I never knew what the initials stood for, but they were a great band and booked dances all around the area. Coley Bagwell was a blind musician who had a music store on North Court Street and sold them equipment on credit. I don’t know if the guys ever made much money, but they were able to pay for their equipment. CSR stayed together a little longer than Little John and His Merry Men, but as kids went away to college and began careers it too faded into history. I, on the other hand, had absolutely no musical talent, but for some odd reason CSR allowed me to tag along , if for no other reason than to help unload and load up their equipment. I guess I could have added roadie to my resume. Also during those years our church had hired a young man to fill both the positions of youth director and choir director. Russell Ray was the Johnny Appleseed of our day. He didn’t plant apple seeds, he planted the seeds of the soul. For many of the kids those seeds immediately found fertile ground. For me it happened a little slower. But that seed he planted began to be fertilized by many people and life experiences I encountered along the way. Never let it be said that what anyone does doesn’t matter. We may not see immediate results of our words or actions. What we do and say may bear fruit long after we have moved on. So it was with Russell’s impact on my life. Concerning the old Calvary schoolhouse where I voted; My cousin, Wilma Sanders was in her 90s when she told me a story about the great coal stove caper that happened there when she was a girl. She had a classmate that reached into his pocket one day and pulled out a very large bullet. She said it was the largest one she had ever seen in her life and asked, “Where on earth did you find that thing?” He said he’d found it in his father’s chest of drawers and he’d been wondering what would happen if he threw it in that big old stove. Wilma told him she didn’t think that’d be a good idea because it might shoot off. When it was time for recess, they all began to file outside. Just as the boy was beside the stove he dropped the bullet in. They were almost out the door when the thing went off. She said it was a tremendous explosion and rattled the old stove so badly it fell apart. The flue dropped out of the ceiling and a cloud of soot and ashes filled the room. The two of them kept running outside while all the other kids came hurrying back to see what had happened. Between the teacher and a few of the older boys they managed to contain the damage, and piece the thing back together. In the pile of debris she swept up the teacher found the shell casing. Wilma said only she and the boy knew the truth about what had happened all those years ago and the boy had long since passed away. She leaned over and joked, “Do you think they’ll still come after me or has the statute of limitations expired?” I told her I thought she was safe. After all ninety years had passed and there probably wasn’t anyone still around that remembered the case. I continued to work at the clothing store as needed throughout the summer of 1970, but my main job was working at the local clock factory until fall classes began at The University of Southern Mississippi. In our free moments that summer after high school my classmates and I often found ourselves gathering at Gentry’s parking lot or going out to the lake on the edge of town. That was the year the national guard fired on protestors at Kent State and the United States invaded Cambodia. The Beatles broke up and the recording of the year was Bridge Over Troubled Waters by Simon and Garfunkel. It was also The Dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin both died that year. Maya Angelou published I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and Love Story was the movie to see at the theatres. I had always heard you should do what you like, so when I went away to Southern I decided to major in commercial art. While working on my finals one quarter I determined I needed a little inspiration. I found it in a three dollar bottle of Gallo Spinetta wine. Yep, a whole gallon of their finest inspiration for only three bucks. I had ended up in a room by myself that quarter, so I’d sip a while, then paint a while. Sip a while, paint a while. And so it went until around midnight when I realized I needed to use the restroom. It was a long way down the hall to the restroom and I was a bit tipsy. I didn’t want to chance running into the floor proctor and get kicked out of the dorm. The bottle was nearly empty so I figured I’d use it. Why not? What’s could possibly go wrong? Then I would paint a while and pee a while. Paint and pee. After I had almost replenished the original volume of the bottle it dawned on me that if something should happen in the middle of the night and that bottle was broken on that hard tile floor I would have a mell of a hess. I certainly didn’t want that! Thinking outside the box, I opened the door and looked up and down the hall. No one was there. So I gently set the bottle down and gave it a good shove, sliding it as far as it’d go across the hall. Then I called it a night and crashed. I don’t know how long I had been asleep before I was awakened by someone pounding on my door. “Algood! You in there, man? "Algood! Wake up!” I cracked the door open and saw the Neanderthal from across the hall starring me in the face. “Algood, you got any ice?” “Ice?” “Yeah ice. We need some ice.” “No, man. I don’t have any ice. What do you need ice for at this time of night?” “Man, you won’t believe this, but we found a whole bottle of wine sitting here in the hall and we’re having to drink it hot. “You know wine tastes like piss when it’s hot.” I was suddenly wide awake. “Sorry, I don’t have any ice,” and shut the door. For those who may be wondering, after that first year of college I returned home to work in the clock factory again. One weekend night I ran into an old friend at Gentry’s parking and hopped into his car to reminisce about the good old times. While we were sitting there another car quickly pulled up beside us and two young ladies sprang out. One wanted me to let her sit in the front seat so she could talk to my buddy, so I hopped into the rear of the car. As I was getting in, the other girl was right behind me pushing me on in. Neither my friend or I had ever seen those two girls before, but they were lookers and wanted to go riding around. As he pulled out onto the street to leave the parking lot the girl beside me scooted a little closer. By the time we were halfway through town she had shoved me against the door and was giving me my first ever kiss. Occasionally, she would break loose so I could come up for air. While I was trying to figure out if it was okay to breath while I was kissing, or if it was permissible to keep your eyes open, she lit in again. I finally gave up and just went with it. The longer she kissed me the better I got at it. I was in heaven. When I finally got enough oxygen to think clearly, I thought about all the missed opportunities I had had in the past and never realized it. Then I thought about my father telling me to always treat a young lady like she was my mother and I realized he was a blooming idiot. After a few minutes more I considered changing my college major from commercial art to kissing. I thought I could make a living at it. Then, BAM, we were back at Gentry’s parking lot and those two girls were scrambling out and heading to their car. My buddy looked back at me still shoved up against the door on the back seat and said, “Wow! Was it as good back there as it was up here?” “Better. I didn’t have to drive.” Then I asked, “Who were those girls?” “Heck if I know, but I’d like to run into them again.” We never did. Just like the Lone Ranger and Tonto they had accomplished their mission and quickly left town. We never learned their identities. There was another thing that happened that summer. I had gone to a dance at the Community House in town and was returning home around 11:30 when a friend that lived near Calvary Church pulled around to pass me in a straight-of-way two or three miles from home. When he did, he paused along side of me, and we drove down the road side by side a couple hundred feet. He had a Mustang and I had a Pinto at that time. His interior light was on and when I looked over he was smiling and gave me a wave. Then we saw headlights approaching and he put his foot on it and went on down the road to his house. I made it home and was making myself a midnight snack in the kitchen when I noticed a car pull into our driveway beside the house. Midnight? Company at midnight? Moments later I heard someone knocking on the front porch’s screen door and went to see who it was. It was Big Iron, the highway patrolman. “Is this your little red car parked out here?” “Yes, sir. It is.” “Did you just come from town?” “Yes. I just got home a few minutes ago. Why?” “I caught you and the boy that lives near the church drag racing. Come on out here and I’ll give you your ticket.” “Drag racing? Are you serious? I’ve never been drag racing!” “Yes you have. I met the two of you up the highway near the bridge and ya’ll were running down the road, side-by-side, drag racing.” “I think you’ve made a mistake. I have a little four-cylinder Pinto. No one in their right mind would want to drag race a Pinto!” “Look, I’ve already given the other boy his ticket. He tried to tell me the same thing, but I saw you. Come on out here and get your ticket.” My father had been awakened by that time and walked out on the porch to see what was going on. “What seems to be the problem here?” “Mr. Algood, I caught your boy and the kid up the road drag racing. I’m giving him a ticket.” Daddy looked at me and I was shaking my head. “Daddy, I wasn’t drag racing.” “Well, I believe you. Who in their right mind would be drag racing with a Pinto?” Then he looked at Big Iron and said, “I think you’ve made a mistake, sir.” “No, I didn’t.” “Did you get the tag numbers of the cars that were racing?” “Well, no. I met them when they were coming toward me. I couldn’t see their tags, but I know what I know.” “So, you really don’t know who was in those cars, do you?” “Your boy admitted to just getting home, and the kid up the road told me he’d passed him on his way home. So, there. He’s guilty.” “Were they speeding?” “Well, no, but they were side by side going down the highway.” “Go ahead and give him the ticket. I’ll take care of this problem in the morning.” Big Iron was grinning in the moonlight as he handed me the piece of paper. The next day my father and I went to see the justice of the peace who was our neighbor and told him our side of the story. He looked and me and grinned, “You’d have to be an idiot to drag race anyone in that little car of yours’.” Then he tore up the ticket. I began to feel inadequate. Every one but Big Iron thought my car was a piece of junk. On our way out he said, “Tell that other boy to come on by and I’ll take care of his, too.” For months I lived in fear that Big Iron was gunning for me, but he never bothered me again.
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