This short short story is just a compilation of memories from my childhood. I’m not sure if the people and dates actually match up, but this is a snapshot of a day in the life of two little kids in Town Creek.
by Tiffani Hill-Patterson (April 7, 1999)
Rrrrriinnnnngggggg. Finally. School is out. Time for a Coke and a candy bar.
I grab my books and wait on my little brother, Michael, to meet me at the end of the hall. I’m 10, he’s 7 and we both go to Hazlewood Elementary School.
“What took you so long?” I ask.
“Miss Davis made me stay after,” Michael says.
“Did you get in trouble for not having your homework again?” I ask him.
“Yeah, I’ve got to get a note signed, too,” he says, frowning.
“Oh, well, you probably won’t get a whipping or anything. They’ll just make you miss ‘The Dukes of Hazard’ tonight.”
Daddy is waiting for us at the end of the road by the school. Our house is right across the highway, but he doesn’t want us to cross the big four-lane by ourselves. So he meets us whenever he is off work to help us. If he’s at work, we walk to the babysitter’s because Momma works, too.
“Hey, y’all,” Daddy says. “How was school?”
“Fine,” we say together. But Michael hands Daddy his note.
“What happened with your homework?”
“I forgot about it. We had baseball practice and I forgot.”
“Well, I’ll let you off this time, but from now on you better have it done,” Daddy says sternly.
“Yes, sir. Can we go to the store now?” Michael asks as we begin to scurry across the highway. Traffic is heavy at this time of day in our little town. High schoolers who drive and parents who pick up their kids from school form a line that stretches about 100 yards from the red light and past our house.
“Not yet. I’ve got to go to the post office and go pay some bills,” Daddy says as we reach our road.
“Awwww. That’ll take forever,” I whine, walking up to the carport.
“Get in the truck and we’ll hurry,” Daddy says. So we all climb into the old gold Chevy, roll down the windows and turn up the radio. The post office is two minutes up the highway and City Hall, where Daddy pays the water bill, is a minute from the post office.
We pull up to the post office and climb out of the truck.
“Daddy, can I open the box?” I ask. Daddy picks me up and tells me the combination of letters as I turn the knob. I get the box open and out tumbles the mail – a Field & Stream, a couple of “duns” as Daddy calls bills and a Marvin Morgan Furniture circular. I love getting the mail.
Daddy gathers all the mail while Michael and I stare at the FBI “Most Wanted” posters behind the glass casing. We memorize the faces, just in case.
Back in the truck we head down the street to City Hall so Daddy can pay the water bill. He never understands how it can be so high. It’s probably because Michael and I run the hose outside for so long, squirting each other to death.
Michael and I play with the radio a minute, and then Daddy walks out the door. Uh-oh. Mr. Hoover stops Daddy to talk.
“Look, Michael,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “Now we’ll be here all day.”
“Yeah, Mr. Hoover always talks too much.”
After listening to The Oak Ridge Boys sing “Elvira” on the radio, we finally see Daddy shaking Mr. Hoover’s hand and walking to the truck.
“Can we go now?” Michael asks.
“OK,” Daddy says as he cranks the truck. “Where do you want to go? Clayton’s or Mr. Reg’s?
“Mr. Reg’s,” we yell.
Mr. Reg has a punchboard that you can play for a quarter. We love to punch out that piece of paper, hoping to win something.
We go home, get out of the truck and walk through the backyard to Mr. Reg’s. It’s easier to walk than drive and park at Mr. Reg’s. His parking lot is on the corner of two highways and it’s barely big enough for one car. So we walk through our grass, stop on top of the grate to look down the water drain, jump up and touch the Joe Wheeler State Park sign, and finally step into the cool, damp store.
“OK,” Daddy says. “Tell Mr. Reg what you want.”
“I want a Coke and a plain Hershey bar,” I say.
“I want a Dr Pepper and a Whatchamacallit,” Michael says.
“And I’ll take a Coke and a bag of peanuts,” Daddy says.
“All right,” Mr. Reg says and hands us our food. “That’ll be $2.50.”
As Daddy pays for the goodies, we grab the drinks out of the cooler and stick them under the bottle opener and pop off the caps.
We walk back to our yard and settle under our big oak tree next to the highway.
Daddy dumps his peanuts in his Coke, and Michael and I tear open our candy bars. We play the car game – the red cars are mine, the blue ones are Michael’s. And that chocolate tastes so good.