CALHOUN COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL
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The other day I took a
walk down to the Calhoun County High School. I had not been back to
visit since I had dropped out to join the service. It wasn’t that I had
really dropped out - it was more that the principal, Mr. McFarland, had
strongly suggested that I do something like leave school and join the
service.
I don’t know why, but I don’t think it had anything to do with his love
of country or anything like that, but more to do with myself and three
other students taking the Drivers Ed teacher and leaving him on a
country road three miles from school when we switched drivers.
The Calhoun County High School had been built in ‘43 when the ammunition
company was at its highest employment. Not much has changed about it, as
most of the old timers in Calhoun County believe if it was good enough
for them, it was a good enough for their children.
As I walked through the door I recalled the oily smell of the sawdust
they put on the floor to help pick up the dust and dirt.
I could almost see Mr. Anderson spreading it out and sweeping it
up in his usual way - half the room at a time.
Mr. Anderson was a rare person.
He loved his job, and was not afraid to let you know he did.
He had also been my idol when I was in high school. I think I
learned more about life and how to live it from him than I did my
father.
The lockers lining the walls looked the same, and as I closed my eyes I
could see the kids running to and from them as they headed to class.
I remembered half way down the south hall, third from the left where I
had my locker and how I always had trouble with the combination.
I remembered that it was this hall I had walked down next to Phyllis
Hebe, the girl my parents had disapproved of.
It had been in this hall that I had first held Phyllis’s hand,
and as I recalled I could almost feel the sweat in my hand as I held
hers.
It was in room 301 that Mrs. Else had first read one of my stories to
the rest of the class, and I remembered how much it hurt when she paused
and made a correction with her red pencil. For some reason every time
she would correct something, it would hurt me inside. It was in this
room that Mrs. Else had told me one day I would or should be a writer.
I remembered the art class that I had met Gail in, the girl that would
later break my heart on Christmas Eve of 64.
The bell ringing startled me, as I had forgotten they were on a timer
and rang even when school was not in session. As I stood there thinking
and remembering, a man I had not seen before, wearing over-alls, came up
and asked me if he could help me.
“No,” I replied, “I was just remembering the ‘old’ days when I was a
student here.” “That happens every now and then,” he replied.
“Perhaps you would like to see the plaque outside the principal’s
office. It has the names of
the home town boys that went to war and never returned.”
I followed him to the plaque and looked at the 45 listed there and was
ashamed to have to admit that I remembered only one or two of them.
It felt strange knowing that some of the ones that I had served
with in the war were from my high school, and I never knew they were
there with me.
I turned to say something to the older man but he had already left, and
all I was left with was the hollow sound of my own footsteps as I walked
to the door to leave.
Perhaps one day they will replace the old high school, but there will
always be memories of the days spent there waiting for class, or for
summer to end and there will always be the memory of Gail.
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