Maybe I was just getting caught up in the members of our youth going off to different colleges, or maybe I was just trying to think of the right words of encouragement. Anyway, I had flashbacks of many years ago.

I left Birmingham wearing my new sport coat that I had received for Christmas. Things were different. You see, I was en route to San Diego, Calif., after being sworn in right there in the train station.

Not many young boys were going off to college at this time–not in my neighborhood, anyway. The Korean War had just begun, and I was about to fulfill my dreams and join the Navy–check the deep water! It’s amazing how things will change in only a half-century!

Three days and nights on the train, stopping every little place and getting more recruits, and we finally got there just in time to get in line. Things were about to be different. The first thing to go was my new coat–over in a giant pile. In fact, everything I had been wearing went the pile. Everything!

Hair cut, no problem, and they were asking all sorts of questions. Name? Billy Joe! Hey, wise guy, don’t you have another name? Well, my mother calls me Bill—it has to be William, not Billy. Move along!

I was trying to fill out the form I had, and I came to “race.” Well, sir, there was no white and colored like I was accustomed to—just Black or C! I questioned it! What’s the problem, Billy Boy? Someone said, “Check C!” “Well, I…” Move along!

Religion? Again, I was lost. I went to a little Pentecostal Church (the only church in Alabaster). I told the fellow that all I knew was, “Aunt Eva’s Church.” He said, “Just put a P!” I thought I was going to like that fellow with a uniform on, but he was really getting under my skin.

Folks, it was wintertime, and I was a mad, naked white boy–who had already had his name changed, his race questioned, and I couldn’t wait to tell Aunt Eva what they said about her church.

I met lots of folks and saw my first Yankees. All I knew about Yankees was those on the wrong side of the Civil War and the ones that wore pin-stripes and played baseball. I liked these folks even if they did talk funny.

It was about time to leave sunny California, and I wanted to see some more of the world. Before we left, they gave us some sort of test. I seemed to do pretty well, and they sent me to Jacksonville, Fla., back across the country on a train to go to Navy Aviation Prep School.

The classroom was hot, and I had trouble staying awake after playing all night. I loved the thoughts of flying off an aircraft carrier. I did a little flying as a passenger, but I still had a hunger to be a Navy jet pilot. Anyway, I couldn’t have it all. I went aboard one of our mighty attack carriers, but we did most our time checking out the thing they were calling the “Cold War.”

I got to go to some great ports and, yes, I did see the world, but nothing was as beautiful as Alabama. The water might have been deeper and the bodies of water larger, but I wanted to get back to the Coosa.

Four years was a long time to grow up, but I guess it took every bit of it and then some. I wouldn’t take anything for the experiences. Sometimes I even think about–well, I would like to have been one of those pilots! And I had utmost respect for them.

– Attaway’s original Cruisin’ the Coosa column ran in The Clanton Advertiser in the 1970s and 80s.