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Writer's Craft Packet
Saturday and Teacakes
By Lester Laminack
When I was nine or ten years old I couldn't wait for Saturdays.
Every Saturday, I got up early, dressed, and rolled my bicycle out of the garage.
Ever Saturday I coasted down our long steep drive, slowing only enough to make the turn onto
Thompson Street, then left onto Bells Mill Road.
Pedal, pedal, pedal, past Mrs. Cofield's house.
Pedal, pedal, pedal, around the horse pasture and up the hill past the cemetery where my grandfather was
Pedal, pedal, pedal, past Mrs. Grace Owens's house and up to Chandler's Phillips 66.
Every Saturday I coasted over the black hose by the gas pump just to make the bells ring. Then I
dropped my kickstand and checked the air in my ties.
I stopped at Chandler's for another reason too. That's where I crossed the highway that ran right
through the center of our town.
My mother always said, You stop and look both ways when you get to Chandler's. I don't care if the
light is green. I'll hear about it if you don't.
And I know she would too. In our little town everyone knew everybody . . . and told everything to
anyone who would listen. So I always looked both ways.
Pedal, pedal, pedal, across Ross Street. Then left for a slow coast down behind the Bank of Heflin,
where I turned right onto Bedwell and whoosh! I zoomed downhill as fast I dared.
Pedal . . . pedal . . . p-e-d-a-a-a-l-l-l up the next hill and left onto Almon Street. It was a long stretch to
Mr. White's. I always stopped there to catch my breath in the shade of the old oak tree.
One more small hill, pedal, pedal, pedal, and then a right onto Gaither Street. Now I could see my
One . . .
two . . .
three . . .
four driveways and one last turn to the left. This was where my tires gave up their humming on
pavement and began the crunching of gravel. Just before reaching Mammaw's back porch, I slammed on my
brakes, sending a s