Huntsville was not the only town in my life; there was also Clifton Hill, Missouri just seven miles to the west on US highway 24. Come consolidation of all the schools of West Randolph County was the school of Clifton Hill where children were bussed to Huntsville, and when we were old enough for junior high Huntsville kids were bussed to Clifton Hill for two years of schooling, seventh and eight grades. Clifton Hill was a hometown for some of my Hailey clan, so I'd been there more than a couple of times, if we could get Dad out to drive, Mom didn't at that time drive a car, and we went mostly to reunions or family celebrations. The above banner photo of the railroad station in Clifton Hill, a tiny town, gives you an idea of the character of the town. In the summer of 1966, a group of us boys decided to take our bikes and ride the back route to Clifton Hill and home, again, a round trip of about fourteen miles, why? Because we could. 

Photo of the Clifton Hill Westran Junior High School, circa 1965/66.

Moving to junior high school was confusing, we left our environment of a the homeroom to just wandering about from class to class a the school all day long, we were nomads of the clipboards and locker. We made it through the two years, some struggles, some bright spots, and fun times for most of us. In junior high we band students would be merged with the high school marching band to form a larger marching and concert band. We kicked ass, for a small band. I remember waking up early to practice each morning at school, then marching miles come hot or cold weather, rain or ice, and my fingers sticking to the keys and lips to the mouthpiece in very cold weather.

The building as it stood in 1917, Clifton Hill, Missouri.

The band at Old Settlers Fall Fair and Festival, abt. 1966.

My eighth grade graduation class, Fall 1967, I'm pictured fifth, from the left on the back row.

Now, we were prepared for our high school freshman year, or we thought we were. We were terrible for our freshman English Literature teacher, and we were hell for our typing teacher, but we were not the best group of kids to look forward to each day. However, it was that freshman English literature teacher who really got me enthusiastic about reading. She was a very good teacher, but we treated her terribly. We were like puranas; we smelled blood in the water, any sign of weakness; we tried to devour you as a teacher. I don't know what was wrong with us, but we were difficult to handle. I owe my typing skills to the typing teacher. Other teachers could handle us, and we knew we didn't have a chance against them, but we were not going to drive those established teachers away. I suppose it comes down to us being freshmen and wanting to be bad asses.