Runaways

Someone once asked me about school.  I told them that I hated school.  I love to learn, I just hated school.  I loved math and history, tolerated science, hated English and spelling.  Then they asked me about my grades.  I said that I hated school so much that I made straight A’s, was a Beta Club member, and president of the Beta Club my senior year of high school. 

When students told me they hated school I inquired of their grades.  Usually, their grades were bad and most had failed or taken summer school.  I would say, “You must really love school to fail and take the class again.” I said if they really hated school they would make A’s.  They would quiz, “Why?”  I replied, “You graduate quicker.”  

I often spoke at high school Baccalaureates, college students, civic organizations, and preached since 1983.  When introduced as Dr. Hopper, I got rounds of laughter and sometimes ovations.  I would tell them that the D R stands for Documented Redneck.

I would tell students that I started school in 1959 at Beloit Kindergarten in Beloit, Illinois and graduated Beeson Divinity School at Sanford University in Birmingham, Alabama in December 2002.

Hopper tradition proves we deplore school.  Mom went to the seventh grade and quit to hoe and pick cotton. Dad went to the eighth grade and quit to cut and load, by hand, pulpwood.  My younger brother, Glenn, and I we were school runaways.  My sister Diane and other brother David were not as bold and daring as Glenn and I were.

When I started kindergarten in Beloit, it was mandatory, and I loved it.  My teacher was a beautiful young blonde and reminded me of Beaver Cleaver’s teacher on the television show “Leave it to Beaver.”

I got to finger paint, go to the creek, and catch tadpoles.  The best part was it was only a half day.  There was no homework, tests, or any pressure.  It was wonderful until I started the first grade a Beloit Elementary.

In first grade I had the oldest and meanest teacher.  She had to be at least a hundred years old and was a robust Yankee tyrant.  This first grader from central Alabama did not speak as did the other students.  I was a shy introvert, and she was a fun making bully.  She shamed my Southern drawl, criticized my reading, and analyzed by inability to skip with both feet.

After school started, I saw my teacher at a sporting event.  When I saw her in that old gangster car, an old Buick with bullet hole fenders, I was terrified.  Momma worried and warned us about the evil ninety miles to the east in Chicago.  The St. Valentine Day Massacre happened many years before, but momma still fretted.  I thought that that
Gangster Yankee teacher was going to kill this little Johnny Reb.

We lived three or four blocks from the Elementary school.  I would walk to school and eventually I got fed up the “Attila the Hun” and sometimes I would enter the breezeway of the schoolhouse and return home crying.

When the snow came, I would walk to school in the snow.  On extreme snow days day would drive me to school.  He would put me out and I could beat him back to the house hiding under the kitchen table for long periods of time. 

In March of 1960, we moved back to Alabama the Beautiful.  My cousin Floyd took me to school in Jemison.  My teacher was a Ms. Shirley, and she looked a lot like the one in Illinois.  I was terrified.  She made fun of me because after three years up North, I picked up the Yankee brogue.

To complicate matters, I asked to be excused to go the restroom.  Welcome to the South and outside toilets.  I had an outside toilet at home, so it was no big deal although the inside ones in Illinois were nice.  Returning to the classroom, Attila the Hun’s sister asked me a quest on the subject I missed will in the toilet.  I could not answer her, and she made me sit on a stool in the clothes’ closet with a dunce hat.

The school is six miles from home so I couldn’t walk home.  But the school bus circled with a quarter mile of the house so I would get off the bus and walk home.  We had only one vehicle, so I got to stay home claiming various ailments.

After being threatened within the inch of my life by momma I did not pull the ailment scam.  I did get off the bus where I normally escaped but it was on the way home.  I felt sick but I had cried wolf so many times did not believe me. 
Turns out I had the mumps.  Momma sure did feel bad.

I honestly do not know had I got in the second grade, but I did.  I had Mrs. Nellie Glasscock for second grade, and she was like a sweet grandmother.  In the third grade we did not a permanent teacher until Christmas break.  God blessed us with a beautiful blonde angel named Mrs. Avis Harden.  I went to making excellent grades.  She was inspiration for the rest of my schooling.

My brother Glenn was a first grader when I was in the ninth grade.  Most of the teachers we had had taught mom.  They were old.  Glenn would run away from school.  He made across the railroad tracks or a mile or so from school like an escape convict appended and returned to prison.

My fondest memory is ninth grade civics class.  Danny Pike, a friend sat behind me.  Mrs. Miller was cousin to the Huns and was very strict.  Danny had a special touch to get my attention fearing the wrath of Mrs. Miller.  He whispered, “Your brother is at the door.”  There was my little brother with saddest face and expression that said, “I want to go home.”  I was his last hope.  Glenn will be sixty-five this October.

Glenn was head and shoulders taller that his first-grade cell mates.  When his ancient teacher threatened to give him a baby bottle he was not as quick to make an escape.  We finally told momma years later about her baby runaway.  I think she was more sympatric than angry.

 

Jesus’ parents were relieved when they found him in school.  He ran to school where the Hoppers were runaways.

 

Every year Jesus’ parents went to Jerusalem for the Festival of the Passover.  When he was twelve years old, they went up to the festival, according to the custom.   After the festival was over, while his parents were returning home, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but they were unaware of it.  Thinking he was in their company, they traveled on for a day. Then they began looking for him among their relatives and friends.   When they did not find him, they went back to Jerusalem to look for him.   After three days they found him in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions.  Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers.   When his parents saw him, they were astonished. His mother said to him, “Son, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you.” Luke 2:41-48   KJV

Hoppers and Yankees

 In 2012, the extended Hopper family spent New Year’s Eve celebrating our Christmas.  This year it was my turn to host the extravaganza because there are five of us, we all take turns hosting Christmas. This year I decided to host it at our home in Chilton County rather than in Linden. 

There were a couple of reasons for the location change.  One is that we all have homes in the Chilton/Bibb county area even though one brother lives in Robertsdale and I in Linden.

Second, I did not know if Marengo County or the City of Linden could endure more than three Hoppers.  Third, my home/farm has enough room for frying fish, shrimp, and oysters, riding four wheelers, shooting fireworks, and parking cars.

It is hard to imagine that Mom and Dad started what has become a large extended family.  I watched in wonder as my nephew’s little boy Mason explored my backyard.  The wonder was not his exploration, but his importance.  Mason is the first male Hopper great grandchild.  He is not the first great grandchild or the first great grandchild male, but he is the first Hopper male.  As I held Mason in my arms, it was a defining moment.  The oldest male Hopper, holding the heir to the Hopper name.  A baby of the 1950’s was holding a new millennium baby.  The new replacing the old.  The thought of one who is in the final stages of his time is now holding the one who has yet to make a complete sentence.  What made the whole episode special was as I held Mason he wanted a drink of my root beer.  I gave him a sip and he confiscated my whole cup.  He teased me by giving it back only to want another sip.  As I put him down, he walked away with my root beer.

That is the way of life, new replacing the old.  With that thought, I can’t help but think of a humorous incident that happened on Tuesday before New Year Eve.

We had a rendezvous with friends from Llano, Texas at Gulf shores after Christmas.  Our rendezvous point was the Waffle House in Gulf Shores.  I don’t particularly care for the Gulf, but winter makes it nice.  It’s not too hot, the shore is deserted, and the restaurants are very available.

It is always terrific to see our friends, so we gathered at the tables beside the high bar.  For those who do not know, booths are not made for real men.  Every restaurant where we went in Gulf Shores, I requested a table.  I want to be conformable when I eat.  I usually eat at the high bar at Waffle House, but when with more than three friends, I try to eat at a table for collective talking.

While there, Waffle House began to fill with snowbirds, which are Yankees or people from “Up North.”  I do not know why, but for some reason people from “Up North” enjoy Southern hospitality, but they have never acquired any for themselves.

After enjoying a wonderful breakfast and catching up how everybody was doing and the adventures of traveling, I decided to pay the bill for breakfast.  I learned a long time ago in Union work that the meal to buy everyone is breakfast.  Dinner and supper are more expensive.

Everyone continued to share old times and drink coffee, water, or orange juice.  As I waited for the waitress, I noticed that a snowbird roosted in my sit.  Now mind you, I was not finished with my coffee.  The snowbird sat down between my son Aaron and our friend Ruby.  Mrs. Ruby, my dear friend from Llano, did not know that I had gone to pay the bill.  From the corner of her eye, she saw a glass of water sliding toward her plate.  She was startled when she turned to see a strange snowbird in my place.  To Aaron’s right, a female snowbird sat in an empty seat.  Another snowbird, with his hands on the back of the chair, stood over Aaron.  You talk about an awkward moment.  I have had some very interesting visits to the Waffle House, but his one takes the cake, or I guess you could say takes the waffle.  I am glad that Aaron is a gentle giant and has a soft spot for people “who don’t know no better” or there may have been an injured snowbird in the Waffle House.

As Aaron looked up at the snowbird, the snowbird asked if the seat was warm.  I know snowbirds come South to escape harsh winters, but taking a young man’s, and his dad’s, seat is RUDE.  Scaring an eighty-year-old woman from Llano is dim-witted.  The moral of the story is that there is always someone waiting to take your place whether you are finished or not.  If we live long enough we will see many more New Years.

 Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new (Second Corinthians 5:17 KJV).

. And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new (Revelation 21:5 KJV).

Since 2012 Mason has been joined by a brother Gavin, a cousin Clark, and a cousin coming in the spring named Jesse James Hopper.  Long live the Hoppers.  We do have cousins in Illinois and my brother David was born in Wisconsin.

That First Christmas

Christmas is a costly time.  It cost God everything.  When all the hoopla, all the sales, all the parties, and all the family are gone, Christmas becomes memory.  My memories about Christmas are different from most people.  The Hopper Christmas was not about presents, but about time together, momma’s cooking, daddy’s being Scrooge, and no school.

I do not remember my first Christmas.  I was twelve days old.  The first Christmas I remember was when I was four.  It was cold, snow flurries, and the wind was blowing as daddy too me to the Bijou, an old movie house.  Every time I watch It’s A Wonder Life, I have a flashback to the Bijou.  If you remember George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart) running down the street in the snow yelling at the Bijou.  It was my first encounter with The Three Stooges, pizza, and salami.  It was in Beloit, Illinois/Wisconsin. 

Beloit was on the state line.  Dad worked in Wisconsin and we lived a few blocks away in Illinois.  No, I am not a Yankee, I was born in Clanton, but when we moved daddy worked at the Beloit Iron Works.  My brother David is the Yankee and now you know why I saw snow.  I walked to school in the snow, had a snowsuit, had snow gloves, and snow boots.

After the Three Stooges movie, each boy and girl received a Christmas present.  I never had seen that many presents before.  It was the first time I remember seeing a Santa Claus and he was very intimidating for a shy, small Alabama boy.  Each boy and girl sat on Santa’s knee to get his or her presents.  My first encounter was quick.  I did not know what to make of a man in a red suit with a long white hair and a beard.

The fact was that each of the employees of Beloit Iron Works contributed money to the company which bought each boy and each girl presents.  I did not know any better.  I was unfamiliar with the whole Santa Claus thing.

When we moved back to the poverty of Alabama, Christmas was never the same.  In rural Chilton County, there was no Bijou, no pizza, and no salami.  It would be years before I saw the Three Stooges.  I would be out of high school before a Pasquales’ Pizza would open thirty miles from home and stores would sell salami.

Each Christmas dad would be on layoff, Christmas shutdown, or unemployed.  There would be no money for food, much less for presents.  We stopped going to visit cousins. They got lots of neat things that we were not allowed to touch.  Aunts and uncles instructed our cousins to hide their toys until the Hoppers left.

Mom and dad stayed on edge during Christmas.  Mom wanted to decorate the house and dad would get depressed and start acting worse than Scrooge.  Even though not a Christian, he would say that Christmas is about the birth of God’s son, not about all the hoopla that people make it to be.

Every year something always made Christmas hoopla diminish.  During the Christmas season, I have repaired a slipping transmission, replaced a blowout tire, replaced a broken fuel pump, and replaced deteriorated disc brake pads.  At other times, things would happen like the dyer element burning out, the pickup engine blowing up, and the well pump going bad.

There would be the unexpected hospital stay for cancer that would days later take mom’s life.  There would Christmas Day emergency room visit for stitches to my son Aaron’s mouth where he tried to run through a barbed wire fence.  Trips to therapy for a bulging disc caused from the stress of layoff, mother dying with cancer, no insurance, and college tuition for upcoming term due.

The first Christmas without dad was tough and the first one without mom was real tough.  The first Christmas with my oldest son Andy was exciting.  He was almost a year old and was happy playing in a box of Christmas paper.  The one with my daughter Angela was challenging.  She was three months old and had colic.  The one with Aaron was special.  He was seven months old and was fun to watch.

One Christmas after graduating high school I bought dad a unique shotgun, a collector’s item the first year he owned it, mom an electric guitar, my sister a beauty salon style hairdryer that looked like a giant hornet nest, one brother a cassette player, and the other brother a starter guitar.

When imagining Joseph and Mary’s first Christmas, today’s hoopla misses the point.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.  And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.  And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger (Luke 2:13-16 KJV)

Christmas Cost God Everything

Christmas is a costly time.  It cost God everything.  When all the hoopla, all the sales, all the parties, and all the family are gone, Christmas becomes memory.  My memories about Christmas are different from most people.  The Hopper Christmas was not about presents, but about time together, momma’s cooking, daddy’s being Scrooge, and no school.

I do not remember my first Christmas.  I was twelve days old.  The first Christmas I remember was when I was four or five years old.  It was cold, snow flurries, and the wind was blowing as daddy took me to the Bijou, an old movie house.  Every time I watch It’s A Wonder Life, I have a flashback to the Bijou.  If you remember George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart) running down the street in the snow yelling at the Bijou.  It was my first encounter with The Three Stooges, pizza, and salami.  It was in Beloit, Illinois/Wisconsin. 

Beloit was on the state line.  Dad worked in Wisconsin and we lived a few blocks away in Illinois.  No, I am not a Yankee, I was born in Clanton, Alabama, but we moved and daddy worked at the Beloit Iron Works.  My brother David is the Yankee and now you know why I saw snow.  I walked to school in the snow, had a snowsuit, had snow gloves, and snow boots.

After the Three Stooges movie, each boy and girl received a Christmas present.  I never had seen that many presents before.  It was the first time I remember seeing a Santa Claus and he was very intimidating for a shy, small Alabama boy.  Each boy and girl sat on Santa’s knee to get his or her presents.  My first encounter was quick.  I did not know what to make of a man in a red suit with  long white hair and a beard.

The fact was that each of the employees of Beloit Iron Works contributed money to the company which bought each boy and each girl presents.  I did not know any better.  I was unfamiliar with the whole Santa Claus thing.

When we moved back to the poverty of Alabama, Christmas was never the same.  In rural Chilton County, there was no Bijou, no pizza, and no salami.  It would be years before I saw the Three Stooges.  I would be out of high school before a Pasquales’ Pizza would open thirty miles from home and stores would sell salami.

Each Christmas dad would be on layoff, Christmas shutdown, or unemployed.  There would be no money for food, much less for presents.  We stopped going to visit cousins. They got lots of neat things that we were not allowed to touch.  Aunts and uncles instructed our cousins to hide their toys until the Hoppers left.

Mom and dad stayed on edge during Christmas.  Mom wanted to decorate the house and dad would get depressed and start acting worse than Scrooge.  Even though not a Christian, he would say that Christmas is about the birth of God’s son, not about all the hoopla that people make it to be.

Every year something always made Christmas hoopla diminish.  During the Christmas season, I have repaired a slipping transmission, replaced a blowout tire, replaced a broken fuel pump, and replaced deteriorated disc brake pads.  At other times, things would happen like the dryer element burning out, the pickup engine blowing up, and the well pump going bad.

There would be the unexpected hospital stay for cancer that would days later take mom’s life.  There would be Christmas Day emergency room visit for stitches to my son Aaron’s mouth where he tried to run through a barbed wire fence.  Trips to therapy for a bulging disc caused from the stress of layoff, mother dying with cancer, wife pregnant with no insurance, and college tuition for upcoming term due.

The first Christmas without dad was tough and the first one without mom was real tough.  The first Christmas with my oldest son Andy was exciting.  He was almost a year old and was happy playing in a box of Christmas paper.  The one with my daughter Angela was challenging.  She was three months old and had colic.  The one with Aaron was special.  He was seven months old and was fun to watch.

My first Christmas as a married man,  I bought dad a unique shotgun, a collector’s item the first year he owned it, mom an electric guitar, my sister a beauty salon style hairdryer that looked like a giant hornet nest, one brother a cassette player, and the other brother a starter guitar.

When I imagine Joseph and Mary’s first Christmas, today’s hoopla misses the point.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.  And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.  And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger (Luke 2:13-16 KJV)