HORSING AROUND TRILOGY

YOUTH REMEMBERED

WALKER JACKSON/All Rights Reserved

Prelude

    If I could erase five decades by waving a magic wand and become a teenager today, I don't think I'd be willing to void the wonderful memories of a really exciting but difficult time in my life, the FORTIES.

Probably the greatest difference between then and now is the increased affluence we enjoy today. Material possessions are more plentiful, but the pursuit of today's good-life requires that dads and moms work. The family unit is being stressed by this lifestyle. And we seem to be rushing to our end with reckless abandon. Fortunately, today we’re not obsessed by a Great War, as was the case in the forties. Now, escape with me to yesteryears when time seemed to stand still.

When I reached eleven, Dad started taking me to the farm after school and during summer vacation to work. This kept me out of the pool hall. I would fetch fertilizer and seeds to planters. When the seeds sprouted and the weeds grew wildly, I helped with the cultivation . . . hoeing the cotton and corn to chop away the weeds. During the harvest of tobacco, I stayed in the shade with the women and handed tobacco, which was tied on a long stick for hanging in curing barns.

By the time I turned thirteen, I had graduated to more demanding tasks. I cropped two rows of tobacco with the best. I used a mule's rear-end as a compass from sunup to sundown plowing middles and sides of row crops like cotton, corn, and peanuts. It's hot, boring, monotonous, and lonely work. There wasn't one mule I like. Not one mule liked me. I had a harder head than the lot of them. Excitement! Yes! Reaching the short rows. Short rows were a happy reminder that the field would soon be completely plowed. The thrill was short lived. There were always more fields.

And I picked cotton for a penny a pound. No work on God's green earth can compare with the sheer misery of grabbing those fluff balls. As the sun peeks over the eastern horizon, you start picking, bending over at the waist. When your back feels as if it is going to break, you pick on your knees until they start aching or bleeding. Then you alternate between bending and kneeling until about twenty minutes before the sun sinks into the western horizon.

By now, the sharp points of the cotton bowl have pricked your fingers sore and the cotton bag straps have rubbed blisters on both shoulders. The kind of agony cotton picking causes inspired these words in the song ‘Old Man River’: "Body aching and racked with pain. I'm tired of living and feared of dying. But Old Man River just keeps rolling along."

I digress. My Dad talked about picking a bale of cotton in five days. Well, a bale of cotton weighs 550 pounds, but it takes 1200 pounds of seeded cotton to produce a bale after the seed are removed. So, Dad picked 240 pounds a day. I mention this because former President Jimmy Carter has written a book (2001), and he writes that he could pick 150 pounds of cotton in one day. I'm about six years younger than the President. The most I ever picked in one day from sunup to sundown was 97 pounds. Where is this going? Well, the boll weevil wasn't around when my Dad picked (1900). And when they came, picking cotton got harder and harder as the pests multiplied. The weevil reduces the yield and causes extensive damages to the cotton inside the boll. Anyway, as a basis of comparison, everyone should spend one day in a cotton patch.

I became proficient at most farming tasks, but I had my limitations. I drew the line when it came time to make bars out of boars and steers out of bulls. Farmers in those days could not afford veterinarians for every little sniffle an operation, and they did most of the doctoring themselves. Castration was necessary, because it took the wild taste out of the meat and the animal added beef faster. Bars and steers do not waste energy chasing the sows and cows around the pastures.

Several summers I was a cowpoke and this was my favorite job. I herded the Colonel's Pole-and-China cows to and from the pinewoods where they grazed all day. A super stallion named Prince was my partner.

What are Pole-and-China cows you ask? The Colonel would tell you with a beguiling smile, "They are very thin cows that have to be propped-up with a pole and milked with a china cup." (Not to be confused with Poland China hogs)

The Colonel bought thin cattle and fattened them on grass and feed. Then he resold them, hoping to make a profit from the added weight and improved price. Sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it? But you have to buy feed; pay the veterinarian; pay the banker interest on the loan; hope the price of beef holds firm; hope none of the cattle die; hope none of the cattle are stolen; pay the help and miscellaneous expenses. And you thought betting on the horses was a risky gamble. Speaking of horses let me tell you ‘bout my horse.

Prince - Short Story One

Prince was a majestic, solid black, saddle horse my father bought from an Atlanta riding academy to help with the cattle. The many moons that have come and gone have not diluted my fond memories of this magnificent athlete. Prince moved fluidly in every gait. He walked with long, agile strides. He galloped with reckless abandon. When he racked, I felt as though I rode a soft cloud. His trot was extremely rough, which is natural for that gait. This rough ride is encountered when a horse transitions from a rack to a gallop. Fortunately, the gallop is attained quickly, sparing a lingering discomfort to one's buttocks.

Prince's competitive spirit surfaced in the company of other horses and he always led the group by a neck. The desire to be the front-runner is a natural instinct of horses. It's this drive that makes them great racers. Prince was abundantly endowed with this sense of competitiveness, and he was a winner in every way.

Prince loved work. We spent many happy hours together grazing my father's cattle and Prince and I became a team. There were anxious moments as well. Several times I came close to meeting God, or possibly the devil, in the company of this gentle creature who wouldn't harm a fly, except maybe a horsefly, but his sheer size and agility made him unintentionally dangerous. Aware of the constant danger, I rode Prince with extreme caution.

Early one summer afternoon I saddled Prince and we traveled the old dirt road into town. A new paved road had been built. Cars seldom used the old road any more, guaranteeing calm and quiet. The gentle, balmy breeze, and swaying pines, added tranquility to an already spectacular day. God’s gift of a beautiful day gave me positive feelings and I gave Prince several loving pats on his neck. "You’re one great pal," I said.

Prince neighed and shook his head. He probably had been chasing a horsefly, but I would swear Prince understood. I talked to him just like I talked to my friends. Unfortunately, he wasn't a Mister Ed, and he answered with body language. "Prince, when we get to town we're going to join Phil and Susan. Phil will be riding Lightening and Susan will be riding Sally D. I believe you 'kinda' like Sally D, don't you?"

In town we met Susan and Phil and set out on our group ride. Prince enjoyed riding next to Sally D. I could tell because occasionally he would nudge her with his nose. The riding party lasted several hours, but fun things end and are repeated another day. This day it was Susan who put the damper on the party. She was going shopping with her mother and had to be home by 5:30.

An ominous, black cloud hung over my home when Prince, with me aboard, racked into the backyard under the shade of six of the tallest pecan trees in Georgia. In summertime, afternoon thunderstorms occurred frequently and seemed to come from out of no where. I planned to rest Prince before riding him back to the farm, but the sudden rumble of thunder changed my plans.

Prince had done a day's work and I wasn’t going to push him hard. A slow gallop back was out of the question. I figured if we left immediately I could rack him back. The time between lightning flashes and thunder suggested the storm was twenty minutes away. I thought about sending Prince on his own. Occasionally, I would unsaddle, unbridle and send Prince alone. However, I wanted to be sure he got a good ration of chow and a cool down he deserved. His safety, in view of the ensuing electric storm, was a more compassionate reason to accompany Prince.

"We have to get along now. If we are lucky we'll miss the rain."

I fed Prince several lumps of sugar, mounted and Prince racked proudly out of the Jackson's backyard with me sitting straight in the saddle, while observing the ugly sky closing in on the two of us.

As we neared the creek, where an unsafe bridge had been dismantled to prevent cars from using it, a flash of lightning danced through the tall pines a hundred yards ahead, sending chills up and down my spine. The thunder jolted my eardrums and sheets of rain began to fall. Prince became fidgety and nervous.

"Settle down boy. It's O.K."

Wrong!

Regardless of Prince's tired physical state reaching a safe harbor quickly was critical. Hanging out in tall pines, during an electric storm, can result in being struck by lightening. I had no hankering to be lit-up like a Christmas tree.

"Come on big guy. We have to hurry now. Electric storms are dangerous," I said, patting Prince on the neck. I lifted the reigns and gently nudged Prince in his sides, and a rack quickly turned to a trot, and the trot, quickly gave way to a medium gallop.

Danger lurked ahead, but I had no reason to suspect a problem. We had noticed nothing dangerous when we passed this way at noon. A short distance up the road teenagers had been using a stretch of the road as a lover's lane. The farmer farming the land adjacent to the road frowned on this. After Prince and I had passed, the farmer took actions to stop the lovers from parking and set the stage for a potentially tragic event.

Dusk was near and vision was difficult. I was unable to see well in the half-light of dusk with the rain beating down in my eyes. A fateful encounter came nearer . . . The storm raged on furiously. Nearer . . . Lightning flashed all around. Nearer . . . Nearer. Suddenly, Prince slammed headlong into something. He was slung backward violently and stumbled to the ground. The inertia sent me sprawling over Prince's head.

I was dazed. I feared lightning had struck one or both of us. But I felt no excruciating pain anywhere and my heart tore at my chest. I knew I was alive. Now I noticed the severed barbed wire lying nearby. At this point, I noticed the two posts on each side of the road where the wires had been connected. Two of the three wires had been severed in half by Prince.

Incredible, I thought with mute amazement. I collected my senses and rose slowly to my feet. Now, I thought of Prince and my eyes flashed in his direction. Fear gripped me. My heart started pounding. My voice quivered. "You okay, pal?"

My heart raced out of control when I watched Prince struggling to rise from the ground. I felt a sudden desperate yearning that this gentle creature, I loved, was not injured. Now, Prince had risen to two feet. He was rising to all four feet. He faltered for a second, faltered again, and up he came.

"Thank God!" I yelled several times, competing with the thunder that still rumbled, but at longer interval now. Prince didn't appear to be severely hurt as he stood looking at me with a stunned, almost pitiful, look in his eyes.

"God! You have to be all right," I begged.

I moved the short distance to Prince. I put my arms around the big guy's neck and hugged him for dear life. I noticed he was bleeding from several cuts on his chest, where the barbed wire had dug in. Some of the blood had rubbed off onto my shirt, but paled quickly into my water-drenched shirt. I looked closely at his cuts and decided the wounds were superficial. My fears slowly vanished.

I hugged prince again while silently thanking God for sparing us our lives. I broke away, grabbed the bridle, and coaxed Prince. "Come forward, Prince." HE obeyed and followed without a limp.

"You're all right. Thank God, you're all right," I said calmly, finally in control of my emotions.

We had survived this potentially lethal encounter with only a few superficial injuries. The collision with the barbed wires happened so quickly little fear transpired at the time of impact. The fear materialized for a brief moment on the ground, when I thought Prince might be injured severely and what might have been. It had been an incredible and inconceivable experience I have never forgotten.

Thinking back to the span of time that included both Prince and I, one disturbing fact comes to my mind. Prince never really adapted comfortably to life in the country. He missed the city, the riding academy, and I believe this shortened this beautiful animal's life. He gradually pined away.

I have given the matter some thought as to why, and believe Prince had trouble relating to the ugly mules he shared the stable with. Prince could have left behind a beautiful mare at the riding academy . . . a sweetheart. Well! It's a little soapy, but plausible.

Interlude

My father was raised on a farm near Athens, Georgia, where the University of Georgia is located. He attended the University two years and earned a degree in law around 1909. After Dad graduated, a distant relative working at the State House helped him get accepted to fill a vacancy of an indisposed elected official; a little nepotism I imagine. Nearing the end of the term, Dad started thinking about his future. Joe, his brother, was an insurance salesman and he had moved to Vidalia. Dad wrote Joe and asked him about Vidalia. Mainly he wanted to know if Vidalia offered a promising future for a young attorney?

Joe wrote back encouraging words. He told of the two railroad tracks and one paved State highway that ran through the town. And he said they are starting to pave the dirt streets. Based on his brother's glowing optimism, Ben Jackson decided to move his family, consisting of a dependant father, mother and sister, and move to Vidalia when the term ended.

When he told friends about his plans to move his family to Vidalia they were shocked and expressed fear for them. "That's an awful long way to go, Ben." Wow! 140 miles. I hear that water born diseases are rampant, and the mosquitoes are so big they wear saddles." Sure there were health risks like cholera, malaria and yellow fever, but the mosquitoes were of normal size. With four people to feed and care for, the idea of moving a family to a strange town took immense courage and self-confidence in 1912.

Undaunted, Ben Jackson faced the uncertainties and moved his family lock, stock and barrel. He said, "I made a living from the start. I had to."

Yes, in the beginning he made a living representing pickup clients at the Justice of the Peace Court. He had no connections or friends and this was the best he could do, and he gave it his best.

One day, Dad represented a defendant who had allegedly wronged the City. As the trial progressed, Dad’s persistent rebuttals refuted every point of law the City Attorney, a respected attorney of long standing in the community, raised. Dad noticed he became more and more frustrated with each rebuttal. Finally, his frustration turned to blind rage, and he rose abruptly and stared defiantly at the judge. Your honor . . . I have read you the damn law. It's obvious my recitations have fallen on the ears of a dead jackass."

This got the judge's undivided attention, and he rapped the gavel several time loudly. "Look here Colonel, one more outburst like that and I'll hold you in contempt."

The City Attorney glared back. "If you knew how much contempt I have for this court, you'd put me in jail for life." His voice had been mollified, but only slightly.

In time, he became a pillar of the community. He would be Mayor when Vidalia built the first sewer system. He fought endlessly with the citizenry over the bond issue to pay for the system. He never understood why intelligent people resisted, when citizens were dying of water born diseases. Then, those same citizens came to him later with a rather frivolous request. It’s another horse tale or is it tail?

The Horse Racing Slot Machine - Short Story Two

Colonel Benjamin Pope Jackson, Sr., my father, was a capable attorney who practiced general law. He tackled any problems that walked into his office. He was devoted, diligent and honest. To say that may cause raised eyebrows and provoke cynical little snickers in today's liability-minded, something-for-nothing world. His abilities as a trial lawyer were exceptional. He possessed the thespian talents to make jurors laugh or cry. Some of his court room antics were conversation pieces around my hometown.

My father was not a military man. In the south, the title of Colonel is an honorary title accorded lawyers who have distinguished themselves through the years.

Sometime around 1943, puritans of Vidalia, Georgia, the 'Sweet Onion Capital' where I was born, engaged the Colonel to bring litigation against entrepreneurs who had installed gambling devices known as 'one-arm-bandits' or 'slot-machines' in their establishments. The church people moralized the stingy machines were dishonest, and worse, they were corrupting the youth of the town. (The truth be known, the gambling losses dipped into the collection plate.) The church folks vowed to rid the community of this evil with the Colonel's help. Can you imagine litigating along this line in today’s environment when State Governments run lotteries?

One of the nefarious devices was installed in Davis Drug Store where I worked after school as a 'soda-jerk' and delivery boy. The horse racing slot-machine fascinated: absolutely irresistible. It was so close to the real thing it had the lure of reality. The only things missing were the odors. There were seven horses to choose from. Any number of bettors could play and money could be entered as many times as desired, just like the real track. Each time money was inserted, the rear lighted board would flash brilliantly and show the new odds. After players were satisfied with their bets, the race was started and the cast-iron horses jerked towards the finish line, just like the real track.

The Kentucky Derby could not be more exciting. Gamblers would cheer for their horses, becoming more vocal as the finish line neared. Mild profanity was often expressed, under some gambler's breath, when the finish line was reached. The horse that won paid according to the final odds. If it went off at 8 to 1, the machine returned 40 cents for each nickel inserted, just like the real track.

Captivated, I hung around, after work, to squander my earnings. I could blow an hour’s pay, thirty cents, in less than a minute. Doesn't sound like much, but eleven pennies purchased a kid Saturday at the movies. The odd penny was for the Government and it was called amusement tax. Shucks! That was ten percent and no one found it the least bit amusing. I loved watching those cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, the good and the evil, and the comical over and over again. Heck fire, we’d go at ten in the morning and stay ‘til suppertime. For lunch we’d have popcorn, a candy bar and a twenty-ounce belly wash. Out-of-pocket expense fifteen cents.

The Colonel had an idea I was a player. He’d seen me hanging around the machine several times when he visited the drug store for his afternoon coffee. The Colonel questioned me and I confessed openly, expecting to be severely punished. The Colonel's conscious would not permit retribution. He merely lectured on the evils of gambling and how the demonic machines were manipulated to cheat you. The Colonel realized he was a gambler of immense proportions. He was a farmer. And he liked to play poker with the boys on Saturday afternoons.

He decided to use me as a witness over the objections of Momma. I overheard them discussing it in their room. I didn’t have to put my ear on the closed door. Momma said, "Ben, did you set Walker Joe straight about the evils of gambling?"

"Yes, Estelle. I told him that the machines were rigged to take your hard-earned money."

"That’s much too mild, but it typifies your approach to discipline. I’ve always had to be the disciplinarian in the family. I’ll take care of Walker Joe later. I have one other concern. Putting him on the witness stand will be a traumatic experience for Walker Joe. And furthermore, it’ll be an embarrassment for the family."

"Estelle, you’ve known for years Walker Joe has played marbles for keeps, and you’ve done nothing about it. The world is infatuated with gambling. People really think nothing of it. He might even become a folk hero. And I think he might get a kick out of testifying. He’s not exactly a shrinking violet. Besides, it would dramatically show that slot-machines are a bad influence on Vidalia’s youth."

"Okay Ben, I see your point. But does our son have to be the sacrificial lamb? I suggest you find another errant teenager."

I’d heard enough. I left for the kitchen to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I knew it might be my last meal.

I very vaguely remember the courtroom scene. I was apprehensive waiting my turn to take the stand. I'd never been inside a courtroom. I was barely thirteen. The Colonel had drilled me at home on how to respond. "You reply, yes sir and no sir, not, yes daddy and no daddy."

I really got the jitters when my name was called and I looked curiously at my dad. He nodded, smiled back warmly. I felt reassured and moved confidently to the big witness chair and was sworn in.

The case had low appeal and the audience was small, but there were twelve jurors, a serious and sagacious Judge, a bailiff, a recorder, five or six slot machine proprietors, their two lawyers, several of their thugs, and one deacon from the church.

The Colonel, a small man, was not a towering figure standing before the court musing about his first question to me. But when the Colonel opened his mouth he stood ten feet tall.

"Mister Jackson, how old are you?"

"Thirteen sir," I replied in a squeaky, nervous voice.

"Mister Jackson, is it true you work at Davis Pharmacy after school?"

"Yes, sir!"

"What kind of work do you perform at Davis Pharmacy, Mister Jackson?"

"I deliver drugs on a bicycle and jerk sodas, sir." Drugs were medicines and a soda jerk mixed milk shakes, cherry Cokes, Strawberry sodas, dipped ice cream and made sundaes. Today, drugs are drugs, and soda fountains are history.

"Mister Jackson, how much do you get paid for the work you perform at the pharmacy?"

"Thirty cents an hour and sometimes I make twenty or thirty cents in tips, sir." Tips were small, infrequent, but sincerely appreciated. No one expected tips. I usually gambled my tips away, easy come easy go.

"Mister Jackson, is there a horse racing slot machine at the pharmacy where you work?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Have you ever played this horse racing machine?"

"Yes, sir," I replied squirming in the big witness chair. A sheepish grin flushing my face.

"How do you play the horse racing slot machine, Mister Jackson?"

"Dad-- I mean sir, it's real simple. You put money into the slot and when everyone is finished betting, you start the race."

"So-- Mister Jackson, you have to put money into the slot to play?"

"Yes, sir."

"How much money do you insert into the slot?"

"You put a nickel in, but when the odds change you can put more nickels in. You can bet as much as you want to."

"Mister Jackson, you told me you were just thirteen years old. Is this correct?"

"Yes, sir!

"Have any of your friends, that you go to school with, ever played the horse racing slot machine?"

This question caused me to squirm because I was no rat-fink, but I knew I'd have to give names if my Dad asked. This question provoked me and the Colonel noticed the hue in my face turn fire engine red. I was a temperamental little fellow and the Colonel knew it.

"Yes! Sir!" I snapped irritably.

"Mister Jackson. What is the most money you have put into the slots for one race?"

"I've put in fifteen or twenty cents if the odds were good, Sir!"

"I believe fifteen cents is a half hour pay for you?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Mister Jackson, did you ever win any money at the end of the race?"

"Yes, sir! Sometimes fifteen or twenty-five cents. Once I won fifty cents on one race, but I put it all back in."

Mister Jackson, in all the times you played the horse racing machine, did you ever walk away a winner?"

"No, sir."

"Never! Mister Jackson?"

"No, sir, never!

"Now . . . Mister Jackson. Who were some of the other people who played the horse racing slot machine?"

"Mister Davis, the owner, a couple of your friends, and Deacon Thompson there," who happened to be a church Deacon present in the courtroom, "and Mrs. Peterson."

This caused a stir in the courtroom and a few roared with laughter, prompting the Judge to shout out, "Order! Order in the Court!" Deacon Thompson looked like the cat that swallowed the canary.

The Colonel composed himself and methodically bore on. "So, the demographics of the players were generally a fair cross-section of our town?"

"Sir?"

"What I mean, Mister Jackson, is that, people from all parts of town, all ages, men and women, etc., played?"

"Yes, sir."

"What kind of talk went on around the horse racing machine?"

"Everyone seemed to have fun, and they cheered for their horses, but when the race ended the losers talked a little ugly."

"By ugly you mean, swearing and vulgar language, Mister Jackson?"

My "yes, sir" answer to the question mattered little. My father had made his point. The lawyer representing the owners did not raise one objection or ask one question in cross-examination. They were only too pleased when I left the stand. Of course, the verdict favored the plaintiff, churches of Vidalia. Is it possible the eight mothers, who were jurors, were heavily biased?

The court trial became the talk of the town. I became famous as the drug-store-gambler. And the Colonel's big problem now waited at home: Momma. "Ben Jackson you have your nerve putting Walker Joe on the stand and humiliating him. I thought we had an understanding. You’re sleeping on the sofa tonight!"

Interlude

Reaching puberty, I blossomed into a bit-of-a-wild flower. I loved music and practiced the trumpet diligently inspired by Harry James, Louis Armstrong, Charlie Spivak, Bobby Hacket, and others. By age fifteen, I played in a small dance band, "Johnny Howell and His Music Makers." We roamed around Georgia, playing USO gigs at Army camps, and we sponsored dances at the Community House. Also, we put together a stage show and played a chain of theaters. Maaan, this was big time.

Often, I found myself in mature surrounding. I soaked-up the life like a sponge. This worldly knowledge, combined with my farming experiences, advanced my age sexually. In those days, I would easily qualify as a precocious child. Today, the worldly knowledge I possessed back then would barely get me beyond the classification of a babe-in-arms. My, how fifty years can change a world? Is television the reason?

I refrained from drinking and drugs . . . wild, not crazy . . . But I started smoking cigarettes. My brand was Camels. Remember! "I'd walk a mile for a Camel." I only had to walk to the Colonel's room where several cartons were stashed. If I had to walk a mile, I would have never started in the first place. The Colonel's cigarettes were free.

My buddy, Johnny, smoked Chesterfields, and he would jest, "She was only a tobacco grower's daughter but . . . oh! What chest-ter-fields." The gang chuckled and rolled their eyes. The first time I heard it, I looked at Johnny dumbfounded, until he made a graphic gesture.

So round, so firm, so fully packed, so free and easy on the draw? . . If you guessed Mae West you're dead wrong . . . Lucky Strikes. And there were Old Golds and Phillip Morris. Remember . . . "Call-for-Phillip-Morrisss." When money was scarce, we rolled 'em ourselves. This was often. Prince Albert made a pretty good smoke. I never got the knack of rolling a Bull Durham. Marijuana wasn’t available around Vidalia Public High. Filters? . . . No way . . . Everyone was fat, dumb and happy. Cancer was almost not invented.

I got hooked on the tobacco weed nearing thirteen. I weighed 110 pounds and stood 5' 5" tall. A chest x-ray taken, when I was fourteen, revealed shadows on my lungs. My mother convinced me the shadows could be tuberculosis and I could die. My passion for life provided the motivation to kick the habit and I did it cold turkey. I've always had a truer prospective of mortality than most of my peers. The summer I quit, I grew five inches, gained 50 pounds and played first string varsity football my junior year. Another thing! The hometown folks stopped calling me Junior. Here's a few more horsin’ around yarns.

POTPOURRI

JT's Holy Paddle

I started high school in 1944. I felt more like a man with each passing day. Girls looked different to me. They wore dresses, painted their faces and giggled incessantly. My face broke-out in acne. I succumbed to peer pressure and started smoking cigarettes. Folks called me Junior. I was small for my age. Smoking had stunted my growth. Being too small to play varsity football my freshman year was a big downer, but playing in the marching band compensated, but only slightly. I went to the out-of-town football games on ‘the’ old, yellow, school bus with the band members, cheerleaders and majorettes. It doesn't sound so bad, when I think about it now, in terms of the latter. But you know the girls flock to the jocks.

My favorite high school teacher was Mister J.T. Alexander. He taught math. I liked math and, more likely, this is the reason I remember JT. He was God fearing, proud and tough skinned. He was country through and through. In the classroom, he was mild mannered and dedicated. And he possessed the patience of a Cardinal. Although a serious thinker, his sense of humor kindled quickly and was well honed. But, when it came to the duties of Principal, he was quite strict. JT's paddle, with a hole in the business end, was propped near his desk for convenience and visual effect. I don’t believe schools tolerate paddles anymore?

He was the Principal. He was the football, basketball and track coach. Impossible you think. How could the system expect so much from a single individual? The austerity of the times is the answer, and it spawned imaginative management. One manifestation was a higher expectation of professionals. Expect more . . . get more. Something for schools to think about . . . Corporations are. They entice the ‘old wood’ off the payroll, with enhanced handshakes, and the remaining employees suck-it-up. I know. I fell victim to the slick handshake tactic.

I remember one amusing event that happened one day during a quiz in JT's math class. The room was deathly quite. Everyone was hard at work. If you didn't concentrate, you would never finish the quiz. Suddenly, a book slipped off Sue Carter's desk and hit flat on the floor, shocking everyone out of their deep trance. JT's black, beady eyes peered calmly over the half moon specs. He said, with a spark of humor in his voice, "If it had been din-e-mite it would have blown us to smithereens." Who can argue with such a profound utterance?

The previous plain humor sums up the man. He was a little folksy, a little square, but we loved and respected him. Would I still like him if he had found just cause to use hole-y paddle on me? I reckon so. Our mindset was different back then.

The Passion Pit

Movies during the forties were fabulous. Movies were popular. Movies were affordable dream mills and a short-lived escape from reality. Remember World War Two? You could choose between an inside and a drive-in, or passion pit, as they were called with a mischievous wink. The choice usually depended upon your date, but I always suggested the drive-in. If she agreed to go, my fantasies had just begun.

Yes, I remember a few interesting trips to Pete's Drive-in . . . A lonely spot was carefully selected and my '35 Ford was driven up the slight incline near the squawky sound box. I hung it on the window and the sound was softened, making chatting easier. The conversation centered on compliments that might curry favors later on, sweet revelations about how pretty she looked or inquiries about her day. Minutes after the movie began, I would slide over near her, freeing myself from the awkward steering wheel. Then, I would take her hand, and if she did not object, I'd pull her a little closer and snuggle while pretending to be watching the movie.

Then, I would press on guilefully. Each move was subtle and premeditated. I wanted to appear calm, collected, and smooth although, in actuality, my hormones soared. Now, it was time to go for a kiss, and if this was the first date, she might resist, which called for more cool patience backed by persistence. If she was a regular, there was little pretense, because the limits had already been established. Maybe that is why a new date was so intriguing. It offered the challenge of conquest. But, when she repeatedly murmured negatives like . . . Stop! . . Please don't! . . I'm a nice girl! . . I started hoping the movie was an epic. It never was.

Boys will be Boys

Teenagers, in my hometown, found hanging around the Bus Station really exciting. Why the Bus Station? I think it was due to strange encounters with transients. Another factor, the restaurant served food to a very late hour. And the pinball machines and slot-machines were a fun way to waste your time and money. And the bus station was a jumping off point. Kids congregated and schemed of mischievous pursuits.

One cruel prank the gang staged will be named ‘The Watermelon Caper’. It worked like this. On a dark night, when the watermelons had ripened, the in-crowd would hang around the bus station looking for the new kid in town. When he showed, two of the pranksters approached him and piqued his interest in raiding a juicy melon patch a few miles from the bus station. Once the fish swallowed the bait a couple of the other pranksters would leave in advance.

They would hide in the field equipped with an automatic 12-gauge shotgun seething with anticipatory excitement while awaiting the unsuspecting patsy. The rascals quieted down when the car arrived with the patsy. Timing was critical. We waited until the patsy had time enough to pick a plump melon and then one of us would fire the shotgun into the air and shout at the top of our lungs. "I'm damn tired of you thieves coming out here stealing my watermelons." Then the shotgun was fired at least twice again.

By now, the patsy had dropped the melon and had left the field like Moody's goose. It's blood curdling. Believe me. I've seen kids clear a five-foot fence and hit the ground running. I know, because I was the unsuspecting kid once. Then there was a similar prank. The inducement here was the farmer’s daughter. Boys will be boys. How else do they grow up and become men.

Football Games Away

During the big war, cars were essential for the same million reasons they are needed today. America's insatiable love affair with the automobile has been ongoing ever since the Model T replaced the horse and buggy. No other tangible object, in existence, is worshiped with so much fervency.

This couldn't have been any truer than at our house. By 1944 demand for the family car had increased exponentially; three teenagers drove. I started at the age of thirteen, two years before I was legally eligible, and no one thought very much about it. Small towns were like that. The police spent their time chasing thieves and murderers and less time on speeders and license offenders. Besides, my "Old Man" was the City Attorney. I had influence. It’s the ways of the world.

Shortly after the war started, Detroit stopped producing family automobiles and started making tanks and jeeps. Dad purchased one of the last Buick GM made until the war ended. The 1942 Buick was a regal car and suited a proud man like my father, who may have been lucky enough to run upon one of those lucrative accident liability cases around the time.

By 1945 competition for the family car was astronomical, since there were four very active Jackson teenagers. We would engage in an endless barrage of bickering and verbal, character assassination, arguing the merits of whom deserved to get the car. Dad, wanting peace of mind, purchased a 1935 Ford and made us all equal partners. With two cars in the family, the constant arguing declined.

By 1946, the demand for wheels had slowed significantly. Ben Jr. had joined the Navy and attended the Navy's V12 program, Officers Candidate School. Boyfriends supplied the wheels for my sister's dating. Now, the '35 Ford had fewer strings attached to it, and I called it mine.

I practically lived in my coveted possession, when it was in a condition to run. Cars needed gas and tires to be operable. Due to war, gas was rationed and you couldn't buy tires. So, I was constantly patching the tubes and recapping the tires. Fortunately for me, Dad was allowed a more generous allotment of gas, because he farmed, and I frequented the pump at the farm. Yes! It was free to me, but I seldom reported my usage to the "Old Man."

I heard Dad say more than once, "That old tractor is really guzzling gas." I'd look away to hide my grin.

One Friday night Bobby Taylor and I and our dates went to a football game in a neighboring town. Coming home, everyone was in high spirits, and Bobby and the girls badgered me into some Indianapolis 500 excitement. Speed has always fascinated youth and we were no exception. I was a sucker for a dare and a bit-of-a-show-off. I pushed the accelerator to the floorboard and drove home, flat out, at eighty miles-per-hour. That’s flying low for a ten-year-old '35 Ford.

Nearing home, steam started spewing out of the hood and I pulled into a service station. The radiator needed water. I didn't know pea-turkey-damn about how a car operated. If I had, I would have filled the radiator with the engine idling. Instead, I stopped the motor and filled the radiator with cold water and cracked the block. When Dad found out, he was furious. He had the damage repaired and sold my little slice of heaven. My heart was broken.

I was grounded for a while, but Dad had a soft heart and soon I drove the Buick. By now, it had lost some of its' glitter. During the big war, cars were guarded closely and pampered. They had to last until the war was over and no one knew when this might occur. Dad preached endlessly, to awaken my concern about taking good care of the Buick and driving sensibly.

Less than a year after I cracked the block in the Ford, Bobby, the same two girls and I, went to a football game away. This time I drove the Buick. Probably you have surmised that Bobby was a bit of a moocher. You are correct, but I liked him. Wrong! The two girls were inseparable friends and Bobby had the in with the girls. I liked this girl, and was forced to accept Bobby if I wanted to see her.

Anyway, coming home from the game, fog had cloaked the area and visibility was limited. My date wore a really short skirt I had noticed several times. She kept propping her knees up on the dash and I was intrigued by her flirtation. Once, after she had been a trifle careless, I looked back to the road and the bed of a truck quickly emerged out of the fog. The truck had stopped in the middle of the road, and before I could stop, the Buick ran under the truck's bed a short distance. The truck was unhurt, but the front end of the Buick looked like an accordion.

I was panic stricken when I saw the front end. I-wished-I-could-die. Dad's words of caution raced through my mind like a fanned brush fire, and I threw the keys at Bobby and said with tears streaming down my face, "Bobby, I'm not going home, I can't. Give the keys to my Dad."

Of course I went home, caught hell, and was grounded again, but my Dad's temper relented after a short time. He was really an 'old softee'. Furthermore, home is the place that when you have to go there they have to take you in.

Epilogue

I hoped you enjoyed a taste of my wild, wonderful, reckless, teen years. I did.

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