Private Walker Jackson - I'm Nineteen - I'm at Lackland, AFB TX for Basic Training

Confessions

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 surroundings. 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.

Walker Joe - Vidalia High School's Best Offensive Player 1947

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.

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