Out and About...Talladega

Out and About as I am Reminiscing

Finding myself in Talladega to make a hospital visit, I took a moment to ride through the old neighbor and recall a few of the good ole days.

We moved to Talladega, Alabama in 1964, I was three months old, when Dad was transferred there from Marshall County with the Soil Conservation Service (SCS) of the United States Department of Agriculture.  Dad had been with the service for about four years by now and was attempting to move up the ranks, so this transfer would be a good move for him.  With his little family, me and my parents, he moved us to Talladega, to a house in the Brecon Area on the east side of Talladega.

It was not a big house.  It has two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen, dining room and living room.  The yard was just a little bigger than the house, with a fence around the back yard, to keep me in for sure.  Dad built a sand box under the bathroom window, and a little garden spot on the opposite side of the yard.  There was a clothes line and a small utility room off the back porch.  Later, after dad finished the portion of the patio outside the utility room and off of the small porch, a gas grill was added and many summer afternoons were spent with dad grilled out.

In the front yard was a pecan tree, along with assorted shrubs around the foundation of the house.  A gravel drive way came from the street to the back gate on the left side of the house and each side of the property was lined with large shrubs that gave a great deal of privacy.  At the edge of the sidewalk, leading to the front door was a gas lantern.  In those days, being so small I thought the yard was huge, the driveway long and the house just right.  Passing by today and seeing it through grown up eyes it looks so small.

We always had an assortment of cars sitting around the driveway.  There was a connection dad had with some friends in North Alabama and he was always bringing a car for us to drive, try out and just about always to buy.  I remember the Galaxy 500.  Ford made a tremendous car when they put that one on the road.  Grand-daddy had one just like it.  Then we had a GMC truck, a Lincoln Continental with suicide doors, and a Pontiac Bonneville.  Later we had a Ford LTD, with the lids on the headlights.  There were many more but those are the ones that jump out in my mind.

There were some strange things about the house I remember.  In the small hall which run length wise of the house there was a gas furnace with a grate in the floor, and that thing would get really hot in the winter time.  One day Jonathan and I were home alone, he was maybe four, which would make me nine.  I was in the living room watching cartoons and the house started filling up with what appeared to be smoke.  I got up and walked into the hall and Jonathan was marching up and down the hall with the tea kettle, which was full of water, pouring it over the grate, which was creating steam in the house.  I believe we both got beat for that one.

Reflecting on this time of my life, I am prone to say that it was a moment of time in which I remember a few care free, happy days.  I guess that is so because I really want to block out-in some ways I have-the sad times and difficult times of life.

As I drove along Broadway today (July 17, 2013) there was a young boy riding his bicycle along the road, and it caused me to recollect the days spent doing the same thing.  Riding along the road, down into Green Acres, along Nimitz, around C.L. Salter Elementary School and McMilan Park and many other roads and places.  We had a place on the back side of the Salter School, in a ditch, where we had carved out a makeshift BMX track.  Many hours were spent in the woods, riding and jumping, doing tricks some kids today think are just seen on television.  It is a wonder we did not break something or God forbid die out there.

Racing the straight road at the school was something we always had to do at least once a week during the summer months.  I had an old bike that my uncle had given me and it had no guard on the chain.  Riding along at the fastest speed, the chain would fly off, wrap around my ankle and take me down.  I spent the next thirty minutes, while bleeding and picking gravel out of open wounds pushing the chain back on and to ride or actually race again.

We decided that we needed to build ramps and attempt to do acrobatic type rides.  Using whatever we could drag to the school grounds, we set up ramps and at top speeds fly over, set sail, and allow the air to lift us up and then drop with a thud to the asphalt.  More times than I care to remember the front tire touched the ground before the back tire and over the handlebars I would go.  We did not wear helmets in those days and that may explain why I have what some say is brain damage today.

Some of the guys in my little circle were great guys.  There was Jim Armstrong who lived in the Green Acres area and active in Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts.  Murray Hall lived behind the school on what is today Coleman Drive; his dad was a State Trooper.  Then there were the twins, Mike and Kim McKinney who lived on Green Acres Road.  There were others, such as Jackie Thomas, Jeannie McDonald, Rhonda and Darlene (last names I do not remember), Mike and Chuck Ball, Tanagra Hodges, and others which escape my mind.   

We not only hung out at the school in the afternoon, weekend, or during the summer, but we also ventured into other parts of the community.  Six points, where the sub-station for the Fire Department is, had two gas stations, then later when convenience stores came into fashion, one was built there as well. 

There was also the bowling alley.  Many days we hung out there, shooting pool or bowling.  I recall that place well, which today is boarded up and deserted.

The old buildings around the neighborhood were also home for spending hot days.  In the days of the Civil War Talladega provided a company of troops referred to as the Talladega (or Alabama) Rifles.  The area also contributed to the war effort by providing uniforms, a nitre works, a hospital for the wounded, and a prison for federal soldiers.  During War World II Brecon became the center of commerce (so to speak) as plants were constructed for various materials and ammunitions.  It seems that in the 1940’s gun powder was measured and bagged by unskilled workers in some of the old buildings surrounding our neighborhood.

With many of these building deserted and desolate during my childhood, it was a favorite place for us to spend time exploring.  We wandered around and through many of these buildings on a regular basis.  Our intent was not to vandalize or deface the properties, but to enjoy being boys. 

Exploring is what led me into the scouting program.  We had a Cub Scout group in the neighborhood and enjoyed some times of learning and investing in the area in which we lived.  Mother was our leader and we met in the old Armory just beyond Six Points.  But you cannot stay a cub forever… 

Mr. Kerley was the Scout Master for the Boy Scout pack headquartered at First Baptist Church.  He was a member of the Church of Christ, devoted in every way, always making sure we said our prayers before the meal or a meeting.  We always had a great time, clean and above reproach, with Mr. Kerley.  Camping trips were the best and we were always back in time for Church on Sunday morning.

I recall a camping trip one weekend which resulted in some quick thinking on the part of our Assistant Scout Master (I cannot remember his name, but he was retired military and tough as anybody I had ever met to that point in my life).  We were camped along the shores of the Coosa River, in the woods, and after putting the tents up on late Friday evening, we sat around the bonfire.  At bed time we climbed into the tents and went to sleep.

Around midnight the skies opened up and a torrential downpour ensued.  It rained for two hours and in the third hour our tents started floating on the rising water from the river and the run off above us.  Abandoning our tents we hiked in the rain up to a hunting cabin, broke in and slept on the floor.  The next morning we found our tents washed away downstream, and packed up what we could and called it a trip of learning a valuable lesson.

Another weekend of camping came to a close, dad picked me up at the Scout Hut in town and rode back to the house where breakfast was waiting and church preparations would be made.  When we got to the house, dad suggested I go through the gate in the back yard and surprise mother and Jonathan by coming in the back door.

As I opened the gate, I was knocked flat on my back by a monster of a dog.  While I was gone, dad had retrieved a Terrier named Cricket from Mr. Lovejoy.  Cricket had grown accustomed to killing the ducks on Mr. Lovejoy’s lake at the camp he managed between Talladega and Pell City.  Dad had agreed to take Cricket, which I was more than happy to have him do.  We kept Cricket for several years, until he took up residence in Marshall County, because he was killing the neighbor’s cats and tearing up the garbage cans.

Speaking of the back yard of our little house on Broadway, I remember something vividly today and wish that I had at least a small part of it.  Over the first few years on Broadway dad made a patio and sidewalk leading to each gate on either side of the house.  It was not your typical patio and sidewalk though.  In each small piece of the concrete dad had placed an arrow head.  Many of these were pieces he had found or collected while overseeing the building of a pond, lake or terrace on someone’s farm.  There were hundreds of arrowheads inlaid within the patio and sidewalk and today I wish I had at least a small piece of that as a reminder of dad’s creative work.

Church life was the center of our lives, at least for the most part.  We were members of the Northside Baptist Church (now New Hope) which went through various struggles in those years.  The facility was located adjacent to the golf course and burned one night.  I remember getting up the next morning to go see the rumble.  Dad sent me scouring for anything that could be salvaged.  I found hymn books, Bibles, and other things.

While we were without a facility, the church met in various places.  I was thinking about that today.  We met in the Church of God, located next to the railroad tracks in town and in the Chapel at Shocco Springs Baptist Assembly.  I guess I was about 5, because my brother, Jonathan, was born about that time.

Finally, the facility was relocated to the Brecon Area, with a modern and top of the line sanctuary.  The educational wing is a two story building adjacent to the sanctuary.  In the educational building there are offices, a nursery, preschool, and children’s classrooms down stairs, with a fellowship hall and choir room.  Upstairs are classrooms which were used for various functions, one of those being the mission organizations for the children.

Royal Ambassadors was the high light of the week.  We met on Wednesday evening after the church wide meal.  I learned more in those few years about missions and the Cooperative Program than I learned since that time.  My friends I made in RA’s were my brothers, comrades, and partners in those days.

The bus was the greatest adventure in those days.  We truly had what was an active bus ministry.  I would have to say that the pastor took a page from Jack Hyles playbook when it came to the bus ministry at Northside.  The church bought a Blue Bird (with no air conditioner) and picked up kids, adults and people from all over Brecon and Talladega.  The key was weekday visitation!  During the week the bus captains spread out through the community-at-large visiting and recruiting people to ride the bus to church the following Sunday.  The bus would end up being packed with people!

Ronnie Legg was the Minister of Music and he would drive the bus from time to time.  He always made it fun and adventurous.  Sometimes we ended up at the Frosty Freeze for an Ice Cream cone after visiting or on Sunday evening.

Bob Humphries was the pastor I remember from Northside.  He was born with web fingers (why I remember that now I will never know).  He was such a kind and gentle fellow, loved God and people more than anything.  He drove around in a VW bug, making visits in homes and hospitals, preached on Sunday’s and loved to fish.

If I recall correctly, it was during this time that I was introduced to two big name evangelist.  James Robinson came to Talladega and held a crusade at the middle school.  We attended every night and I still remember the fire and brimstone sermons, as he wiped his face with a white handkerchief.  My mother sang in the Crusade Choir and I sat with our church folks in the bleachers.  There was also a Billy Graham Crusade in Birmingham.  We attended it one night and I will never forget the sweet, kind way that Jesus was explained and people were given the opportunity to give their hearts to Jesus. 

For reasons unknown to me, we ended up as members of the Hepziah Baptist Church where Bro. Bill Cassiday was pastor.  Hepzibah was a much larger church than I was accustomed to at that time in my life and it was somewhat intimidating.  Made up of mostly hard working farmers, it was home to Dad and he fit in really well.  With the drive, it was not a place we got very involved with, but it was home for a few years.

It was in this church I was brought to an understanding of the gospel message.  I had been asking questions about death and eternity.  All I really understood was that there was a hell and if you died without Jesus that is the place you would go for the rest of time.  My parents invited the pastor to come to the house and talk to me.  I was nine years old and really do not remember that visit, except that I still see Mr. Bill sitting in the corner of our little living room, drinking coffee.

One Sunday morning I was sitting toward the back, drawing and writing on the bulletin, under the watchful eyes of my father, who was standing along the back wall of the large sanctuary.  In those days the ushers stood along the back of the sanctuary, to keep people out or to keep them in, I am not sure.  At any rate, during the invitation I was taken with the need to go forward.  I had not heard the sermon, cannot remember a word the pastor said that morning, but I do remember the urging of the soul and the dire need to do something which would make a difference in my life for eternity.

Glancing back at my daddy, I wanted some sign from him, but he refused to look at me. As tears began to stream down my rosy cheeks I begged for him to make some gesture toward me; but still he looked away.  Finally, I stepped out and made my way down that long aisle.  Bro. Bill extended his hand to me, and that day I gave my hand to the pastor and gave my heart to Jesus.

It was years later that dad and I talked about that moment in my life.  I told him how desperately I wanted his approval at that moment and time.  With a rough hand on my arm and moist eyes dad told me that it was a personal decision I had to make and he in no way wanted to interfere.  He knew what was transpiring, had known for some time, and it was something I had to decide for myself.  He was such a wonderful man and I am so thankful for the wisdom he had and the way he raised me.

I did not ride out to Renfroe, but when I went by the old Northside Church I remembered playing ball and hide and seek in the yard of the church, getting my switching for talking and cutting up during church services, and the many times I ran up and down the stairs of the educational building.

Sunday nights normally were spent at home as a family.  We would eat sandwiches in front of the television set.  We always watched the Wide World of Disney.  Those were the days, for sure.

Elementary school at C.L. Salter was not something I really want to recount, but today some memories came flooding back.  I spent five years at that four year school, almost six, if it had not been for some quick thinking on my parent’s side.

My first year was relatively uneventful, but the second was one that started a downward demise.  My teacher in second grade was a black woman named Mrs. Patterson. She wore wigs; elaborate wigs.  She kept an extra one in the closet (I do not know why, but she did).  It seems that some of us, and I was the ring leader, decided it would be a good idea to get the wig she kept in the closet and play with it.  Throwing it across the room while she was out of class, terrorizing the girls with it as we told them it was large rat, was really not the best move we could make.  By the time she caught us, it was tattered and torn, and our hind ends were sore from the beating we received from her, under the watchful eye of the Principal, Mrs. Hearn; then I received another one from my mother when she found out what I had done.

Third grade was my ADHD-DDDDDHD-ODD year!  I decided to do as little work as I could, make trouble and cause all kinds of havoc with the teacher.  Mrs. Jernigan was not a patient woman.  I wanted to make people laugh and made paper glasses, perching them on my nose during class.  I would get a note to take home to my parents which would come up missing.  After two or three times of me explaining that the dog had devoured the note, she started calling every time I got in trouble.  Seems she and my parents got on the same page and her calls resulted in major problems for me at home.  It did not deter me from causing trouble because I just kept right on, and report cards were sent home with punishment as the result; notes sent home with punishment as a result; teacher/parents conferences with punishment as a result.  I did make it though and now I think that it might have been because the teacher wanted to get rid of me.

I do need to insert here that I was not dumb or mentally challenged, I just did not care.  They put me in a program where I met with a special education teacher for help in the basics-reading, writing and arithmetic.  It was something some thought would work; it did not.  In the first place I did not like math, did not like to write, and did not like to read.  In the second place, it caused me more than my fair share of ribbing and nasty comments from class mates who made fun of me for being in “special education” classes.

The entire elementary experience was marred by not just a bad time with grades, but with the continual bombardment of ridicule I received from others for being “dumb, stupid, and ignorant.”  Many times I had to stand up for myself for various comments which cut and caused me pain.

“Willy” was a kid that rode the bus to the stop sign in our neighborhood from the middle school in town.  I think he lived in Knoxville, the area between Brecon and the Talladega Hospital.  He was a big black boy and for some reason I provoked him.  I am not sure whether it was me or him which caused the situation to reach a point of deterioration, but it came down to a fight and flight: “Willy” wanted to fight and I wanted to fly.  Fly I did, right up into the pecan tree in our front yard.  He stood at the base of the tree yelling obscenities at me, while I hung on with one hand and hit him with green pecans from my perch half way up the tree, calling him various names, relating negatively to his heritage and commenting on his mother.

There was another time when I got into a fight with someone after school, on the bridge between the school and Green Acres Road.  Words had been exchanged during school and plans were made to take care of the issue after school. We met on the bridge and proceeded to beat the life out of each other.  It did not last long and afterwards parents made phone calls and apologies were exchanged.

It got to a point where I did not want to go to school.  I would do anything not have to go, even to the point of playing sick.  We were allowed to go home for lunch and many times I would take a causal return to school after lunch, returning late and missing most of the afternoon assignments.  By the time I made it to the fourth grade, the first time, I was a force to be reckoned with and caused no small amount of trouble.

The teacher was a woman I did not like and thought was mean as a rattlesnake and in my mind she did not like me either.  Our principal spent more time with me than any other student, and I stood in the hall more than I stayed in class.  Paddling’s were a common occurrence for me; almost every day.  Grades reflected my “do not care” attitude.

One day I had endured enough of the teacher and picked up a desk to throw it at her, but about that time the principal walked in the door, looked at me, and I put down the desk and quietly walked out and up the hall with her to the office.

Mrs. Hearn was about the same height as the fourth graders, and was small and wiry, even though she was “old as dirt” to all of us.  She was constantly walking the hallways, looking for someone who was not doing what they were supposed to be doing.

She escorted me to the office, sit me down, gave me a stern talking, paddled me and sent me home with my mother.  Once at home I got another “whipping” and was sent to my room for the rest of the day.

My second time through fourth grade was somewhat better.  Oh, I was still not a stellar student, but I did try as best as possible to stay up with assignments and pay attention in class.  I also got to be a part of “School Patrol.” 

These students, selected from the fourth grade classes put up the flag every morning and took down the flag at the end of school, helped with traffic control, and other various things related to school safety.  We received a badge and vest, and thought we were something special.

One morning dad dropped me off at school and it was my morning to put up the flag.  I rushed in, got the flag, hoisted it on the pole and went to class.  An hour later, my name was called to come to the office.  I thought to myself, “Oh no, what have I done now?”  That walk to the office is something that is still fresh in my mind today.  Each step taking me closer to the end result: a meeting with Mrs. Hearn and that piece of wood she would swing with such pleasure.

When I entered the office, the secretary told me Mrs. Hearn was waiting.  I thought, “Of course he is waiting for me; she needs practice with her swing.”  As I stepped into her office, my dad was standing behind the door, and my heart crashed.  “Oh my, it must be bad to have called dad in before I even get time to make my point,” I thought.

Mrs. Hearn looked at me and said, “Jeff, is anything wrong?”

I stammered and stuttered, “No, no ma’am, nothing’s wrong.”

I will never forget dad, kneeling in front of me and putting his rough hands on my shoulders, saying, “Son, are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

I tried to think of something, anything, I may have done, thought of doing, or even dreamed of doing, but to no avail.  I just looked at him and shook my head, as tears formed in the corners of my eyes.

He stood and said, “Follow me.” I obediently did as I was told, but in my mind I thought of the last time I had done this and it ended with me getting switched for something I had done at church.

We walked out the front doors, with Mrs. Hearn following us.  Stopping at the flag pole, dad pointed up and said, “I thought you wanted to tell me something.”

I looked up at the flag and saw that it was upside down.

Dad continued, “As I was leaving the house, I saw the flag, upside down, which is a sign of distress, and I thought maybe something was wrong here at school.”

He looked at me and smiled, reached for the chain and helped me right the flag.     

I made it to Dixon Middle School, and spent a year there before we moved away.  I faired as an average student, worked hard on my assignments and tried my best to stay in the shadows.  My favorite teacher was Mrs. Ricker.  This was George Ricker’s wife, who was the director of Shocco Springs Baptist Assembly.  Mrs. Ricker taught much more than simple arithmetic, she taught me about life, the Lord’s love and hope.  We have remained friends through the years and anytime I have needed a boost in my spirit I have thought of this wonderful, godly, sainted lady of God.

There were some people along the way who stood with me, with our family, when it seemed all the world was crashing in on us.  The Hodges and the Heaths were always there, lending a hand, doing whatever they could.

How I loved-still love-the Hodges family.  There were three girls in that family, and the youngest was my dear friend during the elementary school years.  Tanagra played football with us in their front yard in Ponderosa, and bite a hole in her tongue.  Her mother Faye, introduced me to Peanut Butter and Apple sandwiches.  They had a neighbor named Oscar, and I believe we terrorized that boy with the Oscar Meyer hotdog jingle popular at that time (for some reason I am laughing as that jingle runs through my mind).  Tanagra and I played for hours together and talked by phone for hours as well. 

Those were the days.  They were good days to grow up and taste the world, even though there were painful times along the way as well.  We were free to be who were, free to roam the neighborhood, and free to enjoy the great outdoors.  We did not have much from the world’s standards but we had more than we realized.

Riding through the ‘hood I see the changes that have come, the sad shape of the houses and the poverty of the area.  But in my mind’s eye I still see that little cotton top boy, riding along the road, on a used bicycle, meeting up with friends and playing and laughing.  I still smell the fresh air, see dad mowing the yard, and mother sitting on the front porch with Jonathan nearby.  Yes sir, those are some good memories; enough to make any others pale in comparison.

And yes, Jeannie, I do remember making siren noises.  I did not know I was upsetting a few of the neighbors, but I do know that I was making others wonder if I was sane or not.