|
|
|
|||
|
|
On Hurricane CreekI pulled off to the side of the road and took a long look at Riverton School. There wasn’t much left that I could recognize. The buildings had all changed, and looking into the faces of the young bright-eyed children, there wasn’t much that I could identify with, either. I fell in love with Sally Baker while going to Riverton School. She was the most popular girl in school, and I was a runny-nosed little kid five grades behind her. I was also nine years old and she didn't know I existed. Mrs. Riddick was my school teacher, and my mother’s, and my uncles’ and aunts’ and everyone else’s in Hurricane Creek. She began teaching at Riverton part-time during the second war, and she just never left. I hope there’s a plaque or something in her honor inside the school. We used to ride the bus to school. The best thing about riding the bus was that it would stop at Bobby Bragg’s store, giving us a chance to load up on Cokes and candy. Bobby Bragg was every boy’s hero. He would fish all summer and hunt all winter. If he wasn’t in the woods or on the creek bank, he would be sitting in front of the wood-burning stove, swapping stories with all the other men. It’s strange how a brief fleeting thought can stir emotions and cause a longing for times gone by. Using the excuse to myself that I needed gas anyway, I decided to drive on over to Hurricane Creek and visit the Bragg’s store. Stopping my car in front of the store, I stood there for a moment. I remembered the benches in front of the store and the old cotton gin next door. And if I squinted my eyes just right, I could almost see the old school bus unloading its cargo of laughing, giggling children. After pumping my own gas, I walked inside to pay for it. Nothing had changed. The building seemed smaller than I remembered, and the canned goods seemed a little dustier, but I still remembered it. Bobby Bragg was still sitting in front of the old wood-burning stove; only his hair was gray now and he seemed to move a lot slower than I remembered. He looked at me with a quizzical look on his face as if he was trying to figure out what a stranger was doing stopping here. I paid and left. He didn’t recognize me, and it was just as well. Sometimes it’s hard to go home. |
||
| |
|||
| All content is ©2008, Old Huntsville Magazine, and may not be reproduced without written permission from the publisher. Home | About Us | Old Huntsville Store | Photo Gallery | Recipes | Articles | Cemetery Records | Tips & Remedies | Contact Us |
