From November 1966 until January 1970 while in the U S Navy I was attached to Training Squadron VT-9 located at the U S Naval Air Station Meridian, Mississippi. During that period I lived in a mobile home in the small village of Marion some ten miles from the Air Station. I drove on Lizelia Road going to, and returning from, duty on a daily basis.
In November 1966 when I drove from northern New York to Meridian my brother Dell and his family accompanied my family most of the way as he was in the process of being transferred from Brunswick, Maine to Pensacola, Florida also being in the Navy. The following spring of 1967 they decided they would like to be stationed where our family was in Meridian. Through the magic of what was known as a brother transfer that was accomplished. Dell and his family also bought a mobile home, but placed it only a mile or so from the Naval Air Station. Thus we were at opposite ends of Lizelia Road.
At the corner where Ponta Hills Road intersected Lizelia was a store owned by Mr. Tinnan. Although other places like it may exist yet today, I’m not familiar with any. The building set sort of corner ways to the intersection of the roads. The entrance was about midpoint along the front. Upon entering to the right was large room with grocery and other necessary items scattered about. There was also a small pot-belly wood stove, but I never happened to know of a fire being in it. There was a large wooden keg of dill pickles, and another similar to it, that I don’t remember what it contained. Along the back wall of that room was a counter that Mr. Tinnan generally stood behind, or sat upon. To the left of the entrance was a separate room divided by a page wire fence. It contained two ancient pool tables for public use.
About once every week or ten day Dell and I would meet there, ostensibly to play a few games of pool, but we had ulterior motives to tell the truth. There were a half dozen or so old timer friends of Mr. Tinnan’s that apparently came most every night to discuss this, that, and about everything else. Mostly though the conversation would sooner or later turn to past hunting occasions. While Dell and I quietly shot a few games of pool we intently listened to these older gentlemen relate past experiences. Mostly these tales were of turkey hunts with a smattering of deer hunting stories thrown in for good measure. It was not unusual for one of them to relate every detail of a turkey hunting day taking an hour or so in the telling. I’m sure it was considered rude to interrupt as no one ever did. Other than an occasional “do tell,” or “you don’t say,” or similar interjection, only the speaker had the floor.
Dell and I would listen with rapt attention at these stories of derring-do. The teller would begin with arising from bed that morning, to breakfast, to stopping for automobile gasoline, to what brand and size shot was in his gun, and loads of other details leading up to the ultimate dispatch of a turkey dinner. Along the walls of the store were several trophies of these expeditions. The hunter would remove the largest feather from each wing along with the chest beard from the bird. The feathers were crossed on a piece of wood with the beard hanging under them as a reminder of the great time had in the taking of such a magnificent specimen.
Although more than forty years have passed I yet remember those days with fond memories. I realize I can never go back in time, but it surely would be nice to play pool and listen as intently just once more.
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