I had been on the “Dinky” two or three times from Tupelo to Lula and even so far as Allen. But the little Trolly-like people transporter that ran through Centrahoma to Coalgate hadn’t carried me anywhere yet. We just didn’t go to Coalgate much except to take the money from our grocery store to the bank in Coalgate. That ride (in my dad’s 35 Ford) didn’t often include me.

I had always admired the short little freight trains that rattled between Oklahoma City (wherever that was) and Atoka and the little Dinky that rattled back and forth daily. Tupelo must have been the crossroads of the world as a big railroad also ran north and south through it. Its depot inspired me with its size. It was duplex, with separate waiting room for passengers from both lines. You could go any direction from there. North, South, East or West. It had a telegrapher and a telegraph office. My older brother Gerald said proudly, you could send a telegram to anywhere in the world from Tupelo.

But not so in Centrahoma. It was said you could send a telegram from the pay phone in my dad’s grocery store, but I never knew anyone to do so. I kept a close eye and ear on that phone. I didn’t know it in 1943, but my days in Coal County were numbered. Dad was soon to sell our store and we would all move far away. To Stonewall. But meanwhile my two best adult friends were Jack and Pearl Downard. Their 14 year old daughter, Mary V., was the prettiest girl in Centrahoma. Her mom was my 3rd grade teacher and I had “feelings” for Mary V. So, when she asked me if I would like to go to Coalgate with her next Saturday, I didn’t blink. I said yes. My 8 year old heart was pounding.

Saturday arrived and I had already learned that the “Dinky” wasn’t running and we would go on the Denco. That was a bus and come Saturday morning Mary V. and me clambered aboard. From the Coalgate bus station, she pointed us toward the Coal County Courthouse. The large and rather imposing structure was in the middle of town. It was at least 4 stories with a generous sized clock tower up on top. You could see it miles away. Mary V. was just a kid herself, about 13, and before you know it we found the building — unlocked. After touring its courtroom we climbed stairs to the top and found the insides of the giant clock. Pidgins galore. And we found the clock wasn’t running. But what a magnificent assortment of gears, wheels and things. And pidgins.

We walked down Coalgate’s Main Street. But before I knew it, we stood in front of the “Wigwam.” This famous old movie house was a sight to see. Next door was the driver’s license place — where my poor mom had tried so many times to get her driver’s license. She finally did.

I was glad to catch a glimpse of Coal County’s best pharmacy. The Palace Drug had, two years before, sold my dad a big jar of Plaster of Paris for Gerald’s broken leg. So, he, Dr. Cody and Bill Downard could set and make a cast for my big brother Gerald’s (1st grade) badly broken leg.

Lo and behold, the biggest surprise of all was just before me. My guide soon had me walking into something like I had never seen before. Hudson’s Big County Store. It would take another story to fully describe my emotions and what I saw that day. I even got to meet Bill (or was it Arvard?) Hudson. Best memory of the place? The automatic donut making machine. This busy gadget was comprised of two boiling grease troughs. Lots of lights. A busy machine at one end took donut dough, formed it into a round pie, cut a hole in its middle and ejected it into the first trough of boiling grease. The floating blob gently floated to the next intersection of grease where a mechanical arm grabbed it, turned it over and dumped it into the next moving river of boiling grease. People stood around watching. “What hath God wrought?” My custodial guide purchased two. Man. The best donuts I ever ate.

After walking two or three more miles (EST) we spotted the Big Country Stores inhouse restaurant. We didn’t want to snub anyone, so we went in, sat down and had a hamburger and a Coca Cola. We never did complete our tour but eventually the return bus to Centrahoma beaconed us and we had to go back to our considerably less imposing hometown called Centrahoma. I could go on, but won’t. Maybe another story someday.

Be sure and go to church Sunday.

Wayne Bullard, DPh cwaynebullard@gamail.com